


A Diagnosis by Any Other Name (S09 E02)

by a_crystal_ball



Series: House Virtual Season 9 [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Science, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4068700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_crystal_ball/pseuds/a_crystal_ball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is part 2 of a virtual Season 9. Part 1 can be found by clicking on House Virtual Season 9. If you can't be bothered to read it, there's a recap in the notes. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Diagnosis by Any Other Name (S09 E02)

**Author's Note:**

> Last time on House MD: House and Wilson's road trip took them through West Virginia. Frenzied first-time sex ensued. Meanwhile House had been in contact with Wilson's old college friend, Liz Norris, who is running a clinical trial on the use of CyberKnife radiation in invasive thymoma patients. Now the story continues...
> 
> Spoilers: pretty much everything, especially the final arc of Season 8.
> 
> Author's Notes: I let part 2 of my virtual Season 9 stay half written for two years, and then decided enough was enough. I still don't think it works that well, but I'm pleased with my half-written episode 3, and if I don't post this then nobody will get to read that. I will be forever indebted to the superior betaing skills of one simoneallenjackson for smoothing out some of the more terrible bits. I can't thank her or Justqueenie enough for all their feedback and support. 
> 
> Disclaimer: There is a swirling, discarnate entity called Gregory House who at one time took possession of Hugh Laurie , David Shore and a host of TV writers. Now that he's off the air, he sometimes possesses me. Only Shore et al have the legal right to use him to make money, though, and I would never dream of infringing on their copyright.

 

 _Diagnosis is not the end, but the beginning of practice.  
_ — Martin H. Fischer

 

Wilson presses his eye to the tiny crack between the two heavy drapes. “God, is there anybody in this country you haven’t pissed off?” He yanks the drapes together, takes three heavy strides toward the green wingback chair and flings himself down. 

House edges along the wall, and peeks through the gap between the fabric and the window frame. Megaphone guy is still there, and he seems to have attracted company. Three middle-aged women in square jackets are plodding along the curb, jabbing crooked placards into the air. 

House surveys them, briefly (mahogany-lowlights lady, slightly impaired gait, consistent with amputated left hallux, loose skin from recent diet and activity changes, probable type II diabetes; blue-jacket woman, myopia, left eye; woman with _Jutice for ME_ sign _,_ suspected dyslexia, single mother). 

A second BBC van draws to a halt in front of the rapidly swelling crowd below the window. Not to be outdone by the dissenters, members of the throng have begun scrawling messages on whatever they can find. _‘2yrs fainting spells + nausea’_ reads the scribble on the inside of a disassembled Starbucks bag. ‘ _Wife dying of food intolerance, doctor says ‘_ just CFS _’ please help’_ is the neat message on the carefully tacked-together sheets of notepaper above the skinny man’s head. 

The old lady with the parchment-skinned hands and the cheap electric wheelchair is still howling at random intervals; just loudly enough that snatches of her lament are audible through the double-glazing whenever the breeze sweeps against the window. “Help me… why won’t y- help -e? Please … I’ve been ill – so long … Fairholme! Oh, why won’t you hel-” 

Megaphone guy’s words drown her out, as the men with the small microphone and unwieldy boom march toward him. “Don’t listen to him. ME is a real illness. There are several studies…”

House steps away from the wall. “To be fair, there are many people out there I haven’t pissed off.” 

Wilson throws one arm over his eyes. “We’ve been in this country for four days. _Four days,_ House, and you’ve managed to draw the eye of every bored newscaster in the Central London area.”

“You’re not seriously blaming me for all this? Well, okay, if I’d known it was going to be such a slow news day, I might have been a little bit more discrete about correcting those diagnoses, but come on! It’s not like I thought-”

“-No, it’s not like you thought; that’s the problem. I can’t believe we traveled almost 4,000 miles for treatment I’m supposed to have in three hours, and now we can’t even leave the building.”

“We’ll get there.”

“Oh, really? How?”

“I’ll think of something. It’s not like they’re physically holding us captive! Anyway, even if I don’t, you _can_ go without me.”

“Great, House, just great. These people know my name; my _real_ name. You think if my face makes it onto the online news somebody’s not going to make the connection? We won’t be able to go back. What about the road trip? Do you even care?” 

“Of course I-” 

Wilson waves his hand, vaguely, in the air. “Just save it.” He turns his head away, and purses his lips against his knuckles. His neck is stretched to the side, exposing the long column of his throat. House sees Wilson’s Adam’s apple bob, once. 

It’s suddenly obscene and incongruous that Wilson should be baring his left common carotid artery in broad daylight with crowds of people outside the window. House has memorized every contour and sinew, and the tactile sensation that pricks along his fingertips as he stares at Wilson’s skin belongs to the darkness of the airport hotel, not Mrs. Henson’s plush carpet and floor lamps, or the cacophony of thundering vehicles and shouted pleas outside. 

He clenches his fists tightly, one nail digging into his palm so firmly that it almost draws blood, and he just about manages to stop himself from pacing across the room and crushing Wilson against his chest.

-<> <> <> <> <> <> -

**Five days earlier**

“Wait, one more try, I can get it this time.” House threw back his head and stretched open his mouth.

 He and Wilson were sprawled along opposite sides of the broad beige hotel bed with a grease-stained pizza box thrown carelessly between them. Airplanes shook the room at random intervals on their way to package holidays and business trips, and the sound of canned laughter drifted through the wall from a neighboring room. A bear bag was dangling from the brass curtain pole. Inside it were: Wilson’s passport and boarding pass, the appointment letter, a frayed copy of the clinical trial information in patronizingly basic English, and a journal article on patient outcomes following stereotactic radiosurgery; because, ‘This is still the road trip,’Wilson had said. ‘It’s still the road trip until I get on the plane.’

Wilson prized another olive from the tepid tangle of pizza cheese. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger and gave one more choking laugh before sucking in a deep, steadying breath. “Okay, you ready?” 

House managed an open-mouthed “uh-ha” before Wilson launched the olive in a delicate arc over the box, only to watch it ricochet off House’s upper lip and bounce into the pillows behind his head.

“Oh-ho!” Wilson pressed his fingers to his mouth. “Oh man, you are _never_ going to get this.” His shoulders trembled with the effort of taming his laughter, as House swiveled his head around on the pillow. 

“Well it would help if you threw it straighter.”

“I did throw it straighter. It’s you; you keep tilting your head the wrong way.”

“I’d like to see you do better.” House plucked the last olive from the limp slice and held it up.

“No, wait, don’t throw food over here – we’ve got to have at least one side of the bed fit to sleep on.”

“Oh, how convenient that it gets to be your side.”

“I’m not the one who started this. Anyway,” Wilson dipped his chin and peered up through his lashes. “We could always sleep _very_ close together.”

“You.” House punctuated his sentence by jabbing the olive into the air between them. “Are a coy. Little. Slut. Fortunately for me, I am impervious to your transparent attempt at distracting me with your feminine wiles.” He drew back his hand.

“No, wait-” Wilson lunged at House with both arms outstretched, and ended up sprawled across House’s groin with one hand curled around House’s wrist.

“Call that a tackle?” House kept the olive pinched firmly between two fingers, as Wilson scrabbled along his arm. “I’ve seen better in amateur girls’ field hockey. Mind you, that video was kinda sketchy. In Amateur Girls’ Field Hockey II they mostly just rolled around naked in the mud. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they were even a real field hockey team.” 

Wilson’s fingers fumbled at the base of House’s palm. “Give it here- are you feeling up my ass?”

“You’re the one who put your ass on my lap. Seemed rude not to notice it. Oh no you don’t-” He snatched his free hand out of the left leg of Wilson’s shorts, and prized Wilson’s fingers away from his wrist, just as Wilson was about to close in.

The ensuing tussle ended with Wilson on his back. House pushed him into the mattress by leaning, palms down, against Wilson’s wrists.

The sharp line of House’s hipbone dug into Wilson’s thigh, and there was a minute rustle as House shifted his weight. “Well, well. Is there a banana in your shorts, or are you just happy to be pinned down?”

“There’s a half-naked man rubbing up against me, I wouldn’t read too much into that.”

House released one of Wilson’s hands, and stared down at the totally perfect, miniscule crease that had appeared in Wilson’s slack lower lip. He was expecting the familiar watershed moment; the one where Wilson’s reaction would set the pace. 

At any moment Wilson would curl his free hand around House’s fingers and draw them slowly toward the tiny white button on the fly of Wilson’s shorts, like he did the night before when they had crawled into the quilted sleeping bag. House could swear he could see a twitch in Wilson’s middle finger, like he was thinking of doing it.

Yet perhaps the adrenaline hadn’t worn off enough for slow. Perhaps Wilson would shove their hips together, with his fingers digging into House’s ass hard enough to leave a bruise. Maybe he would wind his leg around House’s hip the way he did just before they tumbled, frantically, into the worn blankets of their motel bed that first night.

It was disorientating as hell when Wilson’s only reaction was to flex the fingers of his free hand and tilt his head, as if waiting to see what House would do next.

There were several competing instincts, all vying for prominence. House wanted to cross Wilson’s wrists roughly above his head with one hand, and coil the other around Wilson’s cock. He wanted to jerk Wilson harshly and watch him strain his fingers back to claw at the bed sheets. Yet he also wanted to gently brush the crease in Wilson’s lip, just barely, with the tip of one finger. He felt like he could study it all evening, pressed, just like that, against Wilson’s hips. 

As he tried to decide which of the more rational impulses to listen to, a number of annoyingly irrational impulses were also clamoring for attention. Chief among these was the absurd desire to lick a slow stripe up Wilson’s cock and somehow watch the resultant impulses dart along Wilson’s synapses to the microscopic cells of his brain and testes, forcing tiny balloons of dopamine and testosterone to bud out. He wanted to watch every single ensuing reaction: the increase in heart rate, the change in the electrical potential of Wilson’s sweat glands and the dilation of his pupils. He wanted to observe it all in slow motion, like some sort of perverse deity, and then return back to reality just long enough to murmur into Wilson’s ear: “ _I_ did this to you. Your body is like this because of me.” 

He became aware that several seconds had passed. Wilson was still staring up at him, and he felt suddenly and terrifyingly exposed, so he hid his face against the warm flesh of Wilson’s neck and disguised the motion as a soft, intimate kiss. 

That was how it started.

Wilson puffed out a slow, jagged breath as House mouthed at his skin, and then inhaled sharply when House dragged his lower lip along his external jugular vein; and House had to see if he could duplicate the results. He paused, his face pressed side-by-side with Wilson’s, and ghosted his lips along Wilson’s sweat-damp skin just so. Then it was just a matter of pushing his lip below Wilson’s jaw and dragging it down – and there it was, that tiny startled intake of breath.

It wasn’t long before House had amassed more data. Tracing a delicate horseshoe under Wilson’s nipples with the tip of his tongue made Wilson fist his hands in House’s hair. Wilson arched his back and hissed if House trailed the joint of his thumb up and down from the base of his cock to his naval. Wilson liked it when House wriggled two fingers against his perineum and rolled his hand up to cup his balls, the first time whispering “oh, there … _there.”_  

After that it was just a matter of establishing a pattern (jugular vein, drag; nipple, lick; stomach, trail thumb; roll hand from perineum to scrotum), and using that pattern to his advantage.

He began by licking under Wilson’s nipple, and then switched to dragging his lower lip over the areola, mimicking the motion he’d used on Wilson’s jugular vein.

Wilson relaxed his grip on House’s hair and strained his head back against the pillows, baring his neck. When House finally touched him there, just barely with the swollen curve of his lip, Wilson’s cock leapt against his thigh.

Pretty soon, House was tugging at Wilson’s strings like the proverbial puppet master. If he repeated the dragging motion anywhere on Wilson’s body, Wilson would bare his neck in that same way. If he wriggled his fingers against Wilson’s ass or his nipples, Wilson would shift his hips and spread his legs; and when House finally reached down to touch him between his legs, he would sigh as if he had been waiting _forever._

The third time he did it, House shimmied down the bed and pressed his lips, once, against Wilson’s shaft, before tracing a delicate horseshoe under his belly button with his tongue. He looked up, along the plane of Wilson’s body, and could just about make out the shape of Wilson’s nipple, peaking into the air untouched.

House wasn’t done, though. He had to add one more trick to his repertoire. After all, experience had taught him there were two kinds of guys: those who did and those who didn’t, and he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Wilson was a Guy Who Didn’t. If he could just figure out how Wilson liked to be touched _there…_

Slowly and deliberately, he walked his fingers from where they were resting behind Wilson’s balls, down toward the mattress and into the crease of Wilson’s ass. He had barely begun when Wilson flung his face against the pillow and said, “House, get inside me – please” between broken, ragged breaths. 

Maybe Wilson was a Guy Who Did after all.

He scrabbled around in his bag for the lube, and worked his fingers inside Wilson with long, confident strokes, before rolling onto his side and fumbling in the bag again. The condom fluttered to the ground, preceded by a tube of toothpaste and all his clean underwear, which tumbled into the gap between the bed and the nightstand. House snatched the packet from the floor, and tore at the corner. He stretched the condom over the head of his cock, wrapped his fist above the unrolled ring and spread it down his length with three quick shoves. Wilson tented his legs around House’s hips.

It didn’t take long after that. No sooner had House pushed himself inside Wilson than he knew he wasn’t going to last. Frantically, he strained to reach Wilson’s neck and chest with his mouth and simultaneously touch Wilson’s stomach and groin with his hands, before finally rearing up and fisting at Wilson’s erection with quick, twisting strokes.

He saw the first bulge of ejaculate pulse up the underside of Wilson’s cock just before he completely lost control and came with the side of his face pressed helplessly against Wilson’s raised knee.

They landed on different sides of the bed. House wasn’t sure how long he lay there, drifting, but it seemed like mere minutes before he became gradually more aware of the airplanes jolting the room and of Wilson’s heavy breathing beside him. 

He rubbed at his aching thigh, and accidentally kicked Wilson’s ankle as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position. It was like kicking a dead weight. In fact, there wasn’t so much as a hitch in Wilson’s slow, heavy breathing. 

House’s eyelids flew apart, and he was momentarily blinded by the harsh white light from the bedside lamp. He propped himself up on one arm, and peered at Wilson’s face. It looked pale under the light, like an overexposed photograph.

There was a weird, fluttering feeling building in the pit of his stomach, accompanied by a single thought: _I’m alone._  

He wound an arm around Wilson’s chest, and settled his weight so their torsos were flush against each other. Wilson still didn’t stir.

The whole night was way too perfect to be real. House needed Wilson to come back to him and tell him that yes, he really did let House touch him like that; yes, he really did beg House to get inside him; and yes, House really did feel Wilson’s body from the inside while he came. In his mind he catalogued the evidence: Wilson’s heat and weight, the stickiness on the head of his cock and the dull, insistent ache in his thigh. 

 _It’s the kind of basic empirical evidence a teenager could process_ , he reasoned with himself. _Just trust what your senses are telling you._ Mind you, his senses had been wrong before. 

House hated that out-of-control feeling that came with doubting himself. With his defenses lowered, he was powerless to stop the sudden rush of disjointed, illogical thoughts: _What if this moment isn’t real? What if I’m still lying on the floor of that burning building? What if Wilson is already dead?_  

House spread his hand along the top of Wilson’s shoulder. He had tried this last night in the pitch black of their tiny tent, but Wilson had jolted awake. This time Wilson was completely immobile as House’s fingers crept along his neck, mapping the layers of skin and muscle and bone. He settled his index and middle fingers against the carotid pulse point and felt Wilson’s blood undulate against him.

As he buried his face in Wilson’s hair, he could almost see the blood coursing through Wilson’s heart, shooting along the vessel beneath his fingers, and branching into the increasingly intricate, web-like structures of Wilson’s arteries and arterioles. He could see the tiny individual cells squeezing through capillaries and the countless molecules drifting in and out through Wilson’s epithelial tissue.

Soon his entire sphere of existence was narrowed to just that simple rhythm: systole (pulse), diastole (stop), systole (pulse), diastole (stop) – as simple and inevitable as the tides. 

To House it was Nirvana. 

He counted precisely four more beats before passing out with his hand still sprawled across Wilson’s collarbone.

-<> <> <> <> <> <> - 

NHS Boy  
A Junior Doctor’s Blog  
23rd May 2012 

There’s a storyline that crops up in many primetime soaps, and it goes something like this. Teenaged girl starts dating teenaged boy, teenaged girl gains weight and can’t lose it, teenaged girl goes into labour nine months later having had absolutely no idea she was pregnant. 

It says something about the modern-day obsession with sex that we never consider the other facets of teenaged ignorance on the subject, particularly amongst those from different cultural backgrounds.

Early on in my first year of training, when I was working in Obs & Gynae, I came across a young female patient from Bangladesh. Let’s call her Laxmi. She was young – under 20 – and had been in an arranged marriage for almost two years. She claimed to want children, and her lack of ability to conceive was causing some tension with her mother-in-law, who was anxious for an English-born grandson.

So far Laxmi had insisted that she only see female physicians, but after three visits to her GP had yielded no results, and the first gynecologist was left scratching her head, a second consultant had suggested she see my wife’s friend in London for an ultrasound. Said friend had persuaded Laxmi that the doctor to whom I was attached, a world-renowned male gynecologist, should really be called in for a second opinion.

So it was that we met Laxmi in a cramped ultrasound suite and went through the routine questions: did she have any pain or discomfort? Did she have regular periods? Were she and her husband having regular intercourse?

“Yes, my husband and I have sex almost every night,” she bragged. “He is a very virulent male, and I am disappointing him by being unable to conceive.”

“Has your husband been tested?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He has been tested twice, and they say he has a very high sperm count. I have put him through shame, making him think he has to see doctors when it is my fault.”

We tried our best to reassure her that these things are nobody’s fault and left, but no sooner had we exited the room than we found ourselves bolting back through the door at the sound of screaming. We knocked and rushed inside to find Laxmi sobbing with her lower half still covered by the blanket.

“Don’t go away again,” she begged us. “Don’t leave me alone with her.”

“What on earth happened?” We asked, almost in unison.

“I’m so sorry, Laxmi,” my wife’s friend was saying. “I didn’t realize the probe would hurt you so much.”

Laxmi wasn’t listening. “She put it in a bad place!” She insisted. “In my private area where I have my monthly periods.”

“I’m sorry if I didn’t explain the procedure properly-” she continued, only to be cut off by Laxmi.

“You are not doing that procedure again. Nobody touches me there, not even my husband.”

My wife’s friend looked shocked, but to her credit she recovered quickly. She knelt delicately in front of our patient. “Does this mean you aren’t having vaginal sex?”

Laxmi shook her head.

“Listen to me, Laxmi, you can’t get pregnant by having sex through the back passage. Only vaginal sex can make you have a baby. Do you understand?”

“What are you talking about? I won’t let a man touch me in those places. That is dirty!”

It felt like the silence that followed lasted at least five minutes, although I suppose it’s more likely that it was about five seconds. Had this woman really been to her GP three times and seen two different consultants before anybody realized she didn’t know how to have sex?

“Then … where have you been having sex?” The senior gynecologist finally asked.

“On my nipples.” Laxmi replied. “My mother says that the nipples are where the baby gets his food to grow big and strong, so my husband has been putting lots of his milk into them.”

Keeping a straight face was relatively easy. For a long time we were simply too stunned to react at all.

 

 **Skeeter178  
** OMG NHS Boy your blog is the best!

 

 **Helen_xxx  
** This story reminds me of when I was little and I thought you could get pregnant if a man peed in your belly button. Sadly, I believed this until I was about 11. :-0

 

 **LondonGuy1980  
** Lol Helen. When I was little I thought the man put his penis inside the woman and just lay still for ages! I remember thinking it must be really boring, just waiting around until some semen came out lol.

 

 **RickMaan  
** NHS Boy for Health Secretary!!

 -<> <> <> <> <> <> -

House can’t tell if the morons outside the window are getting louder, or if they have simply been joined by further morons. Either way, it’s at the stage where he can now hear them from across the room as he hoists the laptop from the top of the oak sideboard and opens it on the small round table.

Wilson half turns his head, his eyes still unfocussed. “Should I even ask?”

“These people figured out where we’ve been living, and I want to know how. Somebody must have said something.” House stares at the tiny spinning wheel next to the word _welcome_ and wills the computer to go faster.

Wilson shifts a little in his seat, and simply says “hm.” Nothing – no screamed obscenities or insults – could have halted House as quickly or as effectively as that broken and defeated syllable.

There are a number of things House could say in return.

_I’m sorry._

That always worked well.

 _I’m sorry,_ _Wilson_ _. I have been a self-obsessed jerk, and you deserve better._

Wilson would look up then. He might even meet House’s gaze. _It’s OK,_ he might say. _I suppose you were just being you. You didn’t mean for any of this to happen._

If he were in a more petulant mood he might say _No, I don’t deserve this,_ but he would still say _I suppose it’s not completely your fault._

What House really wants to say is: _I’ll make it up to you. When the time comes, when the cancer wins and there’s nothing else we can do, I’ll hook us both up to an intravenous barbiturate and lie down next to you with my hand in your hair. I’ll get the doses just right, accounting for body weight and metabolism. The light will go out in our eyes at the exact same moment, so that neither one of us will know what it’s like to live without the other for even a fraction of a second._

He doesn’t even want to think about what Wilson would say in response to _that_.

 _I love you._ Thatwouldn’t be the most pathetic thing he could say right now, but it’s pretty close.

 _I died for you._ No, there’s no way he’s going to say that.

Wilson is still baring that same pulse point, still avoiding House’s gaze, and so House forces his eyes back to the screen, and loads the browser with shaking fingers. He can feel himself slipping back into his old self, as someone might slip into a comfortable old pair of sweatpants, and it’s depressingly easy to do. There’s a tiny voice jabbering away at the periphery of his consciousness, and that’s like the return of an old friend too. _Say something to get a reaction. Anything. Push his buttons._

What he finally does say is “How did this happen?” But Wilson takes it as a rhetorical question, and simply shakes his head, so House is left to ponder the puzzle alone.

When had he first lost his tenuous grip on this situation, on Wilson, on himself?

Was it that time in the hospital waiting room with Mr. Phillips, the stoners and the child with the angry idiot for a father? Was it when he agreed to look at the tumor sample from the sponsors’ kid, or that split second when he shoved the discarded packet into his pocket in the QC lab?

No, it was probably earlier than that. Come to think of it, the first chinks had probably started appearing back in the white tiled cubicle in the airport bathroom, although House wasn’t really aware of them then.

 _I should have fought harder,_ he thinks.

-<> <> <> <> <> <> -

  **Four days earlier**

“I can’t believe you blunted my razor.” Wilson dragged the faded rucksack higher up his shoulder and rubbed the blotchy crescent of skin under his jaw. “I look worse now than before I decided to go clean shaven." 

House squeezed his way between the guy in the Hawaiian shirt and the woman with the luggage cart. “Jeez, I’m so sorry I stopped you from looking pretty while you sit on an airplane for _eight_ hours.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless, of course, your general bitchiness has less to do with your not being clean shaven, and more to do with the fact that I am? Now that we get to make out occasionally you think you have some kind of ownership over my face, is that it?” He sniffed. “You know, if you’re not going to respect my rights over my own body, we’re just gonna have to call this whole thing off. My momma warned me about men like you.”

“Yeah, well done, House, you got me. This has absolutely nothing to do with the uncomfortable and unsightly mess you’ve made of my face. It is, as always, all about you.”

House’s face split into a grin. “Thought so. You’re obsessed. Anyway, if it’ll cheer you up I’ll buy a new one when we get to London. Okay, cream puff?”

Wilson paused, mid-stride. “Wait, what do you mean when _we_ get to London?”

House came to a halt beneath the _Departures_ sign, and leaned heavily on his cane. The information for the 09:10 flight to Ontario was still blinking in the top right-hand corner: _Delayed, Delayed, Delayed_. “Oh, didn’t I tell you I was coming too?” He smacked himself on the side of the head. “God, I knew there was something I was forgetting. Here was me thinking I left the iron on.”

Wilson took one quick glance over his left shoulder. “Are you insane? You can’t come; you’re - you’re meant to be dead! And the second they figure out you’re not, they’ll throw your ass in jail!”

“Oh ye of little faith.” House dug a battered passport from his jacket pocket, and tossed it at Wilson.

Wilson caught it between his hand and his rumpled green tee-shirt, and flicked open the back page. “Oliver Fairholme. Wait, your patient Oliver? The one who died shooting up with you? _That_ Oliver?”

“Figured he wasn’t using it.”

“Great, _fantastic_. You do know you guys look nothing alike.”

“Duh. I’m tall and roguishly handsome, and he’s … a jar of ashes my mother probably has on the mantelpiece. Of course we look nothing alike. Oh, wait, you mean _before,_ right.”

“Oh my god, you _still_ haven’t told your mother you’re alive?”

“Will you relax? CBP only care about people coming into the country. They couldn’t care less who leaves. They’ll take one glance at me and the other white American male in the picture, and wave me right through. And I am going to tell my mother, eventually. Although I’m sure her rabbit-like dirty weekends with what’s-his-name are numbing her pain.”

“Unbelievable. Just … unbelievable”

“And speaking of buying stuff; that reminds me: I’m gonna need a few things for the trip.”

Wilson had fished his wallet out of his pocket and snapped it open before House had even held out his hand for the credit card.

“I’ve always thought this was your second best asset.” House arched one eyebrow, pointedly, and leered in the direction of Wilson’s ass as he tugged the card from the middle slot. He crossed his cane over Wilson’s ankle, turned neatly on his heel and lumbered into the store.

Wilson ambled across the polished floor and stepped through the door in time to see House grab the handle of the large wheeled case with the pink trim on the display rack.

House’s hands flew to his face. “Oh, that is adorable. Be a dear and hold that.” He shoved the case into Wilson’s arms before plucking a pair of silver cufflinks from the white stand on the counter and rifling through the basket of luggage padlocks.

Wilson was still waiting for the store clerk to box the cufflinks when House took off in the direction of the menswear store. By the time Wilson caught up, he was sitting on the block of square leather stools while a man with a small cream shoe horn knelt at his feet.

Wilson planted one hand on his hip. “So, let me get this straight. You refuse to wear anything other than sneakers for twenty years, but all of a sudden you have to have dress shoes for … a plane trip?”

“They go better with the Armani suit.”

“Ah, of course, you can’t travel coach on a transatlantic flight without an Armani suit.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.” He eased his foot out of the shoe. “Yeah, that’s great, I’ll take them. And get me the boot polish you recommended, but in dark brown.”

The man paused with the shoes pinched together at the heel in one hand. “Er, Sir, the shoes are black.”

“Wow, well done. I bet you were top of your class in coloring-in. Black shoes, dark brown boot polish, the Armani suit in a medium,” he flicked his hand toward the chrome rail. “That grey shirt, also in a medium, and an olive green tie if you have one.”

“Coming right up.”

“Thanks. Put it on my card.” He quirked an eyebrow at Wilson.

By the time they had made their way to the narrow, tiled men’s room at the closed end of the terminal, Wilson had five bags of shopping spread along the forearm that was not dragging the case, while House strolled ahead with his cane, rucksack and a small drugstore bag containing two packets of gum.

House waited until the bald guy with the dark jeans finished peeing, waved his hands perfunctorily under the tap, and left without using the drier. He glanced about and bundled three of the bags into the stall, before sliding the bolt in the door and shrugging off his clothes.

Four days later, in the sobering stillness of the London apartment, with the dull roar of the crowd drifting through the double glazing, House would know _that_ was the moment he lost his tenuous grasp on the various strands of his life. Standing among the chaotic jumble on the floor of the bathroom stall, however, he lacked the clarity to imagine anything beyond getting through customs and onto the plane.

He pulled on the suit, swallowed, and dug around in his hiking jacket for the Vicodin bottle. There were 29 pills inside. House let them tumble into one hand, before winding back the red tabs on both packets of gum. He threw all but two pieces into the toilet, and crammed the Vicodin into the empty packets before wedging a piece of gum onto the top of one, and pinching the wrapper shut.

He was about to do the same with the other pack, but paused with the gum between his finger and thumb. What if he got found out? In a panic, he sucked three tablets into his mouth, threw back his head and swallowed them whole without water.

House strolled out of the stall, stood in front of the mirror, and squeezed a pea-sized amount of boot polish into his hands before rubbing them together and running his fingers through his hair. After he’d reached for the soap and washed the last of the polish away, he flicked open the back page of the passport and held it beside his face and newly darkened hair. “Whaddya think?”

“That’s your big plan? Dress the same as the passport photo?”

“It’s part of my plan.” He tossed the large case onto the white tiles of the floor, and emptied the contents of his backpack inside, before flinging in the backpack itself along with the boot polish and his sneakers. He folded the clothes he’d been wearing and the remaining shirts on top. “First rule of customs officials: question those who travel light. They will assume you have no possessions, no job and a butt-load of drugs. Literally and figuratively speaking.” The metallic rasp of the zipper echoed off the bathroom walls, and the case was shut. “Time to check in. Just remember: my name’s Oliver, I used to be a stockbroker and I am the hottest guy you ever met. Not that you should need help remembering point number three.”

“Oh yeah, nothing can go wrong with this plan.”

Fortunately, the woman with the uneven, cracked make-up who checked them in barely glanced at the passports before launching into the standard questions (“Did you pack this case yourself? Did anybody give you anything to take onto the plane?”) and five hours later they found themselves squashed into adjacent seats, pouring over the scribbled chessboard on the back of an envelope on Wilson’s tray table.

“Bishop takes knight… If you know what I mean.” House arched his right eyebrow, plucked the vodka miniature from the grid and plonked it down in front of Wilson.

“I hate you.” Wilson unscrewed the cap, pressed the tiny bottle to his lips and downed the vodka in one.

House kept his eyes fixed on Wilson. “Recent events would suggest otherwise.”

“Pawn to Queen’s Knight 4.” Wilson pushed a yellow M&M along the paper with the tip of one finger. A pink tinge was creeping across his cheeks, and threading its way toward his ears. He teetered a little, before slumping against the back of the upright seat and saying, “I don’t know why I’m bothering to think about this, anyway. You’ve probably figured out a way to beat me in three moves.”

“Four to six, actually, depending on how you counter. There was a way I could have beaten you one move ago, but then you’d have eaten all the M&Ms and wouldn’t be nearly this drunk.”

Wilson glanced at the board before throwing his hands in the air. “That’s it, I forfeit.”

“Oh, come on, what else are we going to do for the next four hours?”

“I don’t care, Hou-“

“Sorry, what did you just call me?” House put his hand up to his ear.

“Fine, I don’t care _Oliver._ Personally I was thinking of ordering some coffee.”

“That won’t take four hours, even with this lousy service.” He scanned the seats around him, briefly, and leaned toward Wilson. “Unless you want to join the mile-high club?”

“Will you keep your voice down?”

“Like anybody’s listening.” He pushed his back away from the padded seat to get a better view of the doll-like woman with the knot of black hair who was sitting in the window seat beside them, a white cup poised between her fingertips. “How’s the coffee?”

She tilted her head as if to ascertain whether House was speaking to her.

House tried again. “Ni huì shuō Yīng yu ma?”

She cast her eyes toward the hem of her ruffled skirt and shook her head with a tiny, stuttering laugh.

“She doesn’t speak English. Relax. London’s where she gets her connecting flight for Peking, anyway.” He jerked his head toward the fan of stickers protruding from her passport. “It says so on her ticket. Now, as regards my last question…”

“Cut it out, seriously.”

“I’m sorry, I was being too subtle again. Let me make it clearer. Do you, James Wilson, want to have sex with me in the airplane bathroom?”

“Perhaps _I_ was being too subtle. No.”

“Fair enough.” House dipped his chin at the woman. “Do you mind if I have sex with her?”

“Leave her alone. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-four.”

House leaned back, and steepled his fingers. “So, let’s see. You don’t want to have sex with me, but you don’t want anybody else to have sex with me either. Interesting, there’s a word for that.”

“Try to imagine what word I’m thinking of right now.”

“Nice deflection. Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re exhibiting inconsistent and possessive behavior. Or is it just that you want me to ask Little China Girl to come in on a three-way. Have ourselves a quick oriental sandwich?”

“You know, _Oliver,_ you’re starting to seriously remind me of this _ass_ I used to know called Greg.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” House turned and folded his hands in his lap, before saying in a much quieter voice “Stands to reason you’d rather be the filling in _that_ particular sandwich.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, I’m just thinking this through. You’ve slept with me more than once, which means it’s way too late to chalk it down to a momentary lapse or a one-time thing, yet most of the time you act like you aren’t really any more interested than you used to be.”

Wilson fixed House with a level stare. “I realize I have learned nothing from the past twenty years, but is there even a slim chance you actually want to have a serious discussion about this? Because after the plane lands, when we’re not surrounded by strangers, I will gladly sit down and talk to you like A Normal Person.”

House narrowed his eyes. “Even more interesting. So you think this is worthy of _serious discussion_ , meaning that A, you think we have more than a few words to say on the subject, and B, you think whatever we do have to say is worth taking seriously.”

“Yep, you think I would have learned by now.”

House seemed to gain momentum. “So we have apparent apathy and no discernable personality changes on one hand, yet on the other hand you’re sleeping with me and you’ve decided to try radiation. Now we could attribute your wildly fluctuating moods to the cancer. Nothing unusual there, guy’s faced with his own mortality, he’s running out of time, etcetera, etcetera. Perhaps you’re trying to distract yourself, or fit in as many experiences as possible while you still can; but then if that’s the case it doesn’t explain why you’re taking time out from the road trip.”

Wilson threw his head back against the headrest, and squeezed his eyes together. “For the love of God, will you stop trying to _diagnose_ our relationship!”

“Ah, so you would call it ‘a relationship?’”

“This conversation is over – where are you going?”

House paused with the buckle of the seatbelt still in his hand, and settled against the back of the seat just long enough to lean into Wilson and say: “I’m going to join the mile-high club by myself. If you want to change your mind and join me, you have two minutes.” He trailed his gaze slowly down Wilson’s chest to his lap, before staring, pointedly, at what seemed to be the faintest hint of a stirring bulge beneath the line of Wilson’s zipper. He flicked the tip of his tongue through the corner of his mouth. “On second thoughts, make that a minute and a half.” He hoisted himself out of his seat, and leaned heavily against the left-hand row of seats as he made his way to the back of the plane.

When he eventually returned, Wilson had taken the free paperfrom the string pocket in front of his seat, and was holding it, folded, in front of his face.

House lowered himself back against the chair. “Mmm. God, I’m good. Think I’ll take a nap.” He closed his eyes, and was a little surprised when, as the cabin lights were dimmed and the rattle of the carts slowly subsided, he felt himself drifting. It was an uneasy doze, interrupted at intervals by the pathetic need to gently press his fingers into Wilson’s flesh, and reassure himself that Wilson really was sitting, alive and breathing, mere inches away. When he eventually gave up, scrubbed at his eyelids with the back of his hand and opened them wide, Wilson’s seat was tilted back and his eyes were closed. The paper was folded between his lap and his hand. House could just make out the text of one small article in the corner of the top page.

 ** _Still no book deal for NHS Boy_  
** _As bloggers-turned-authors Ray Locke and Dr Enzo top the Amazon charts, Bob Lanier wonders why the illusive and ever-popular junior doctor is sticking to the blogosphere._

It was obvious from his breathing that Wilson was still awake, so House contented himself with resting one hand against the edge of Wilson’s chair, and sneaking the occasional glance at the slow expansion and contraction of Wilson’s ribcage beneath his tee-shirt.

They eventually began a bumpy decent through the sputtering rain, before they taxied toward the square, illuminated building beside the runway. The seatbelt sign pinged off, and Wilson helped House into the aisle. He nodded to the window seat. “We should let the girl off; your transport could be a while.” He locked eyes with her, and gestured with one wide sweep of his arm across the seats.

She shuffled forward, dipped her head, and grabbed her faux-leather bag from the overhead compartment. As the line began to move toward the exit, she giggled, suddenly, and called back over her shoulder in perfectly accented American English. “Thanks! Hope you guys enjoy London!”

House’s face split into a grin as he watched her go. “Oh, we _so_ should have invited her to join the mile-high club with us.”

They ditched the lady with the wheelchair when they got to the near-stationary passport control line. House stood with his weight on his good leg, and shuffled forward at intervals with Wilson’s hands under his forearm.

As they neared the faded red line on the floor, House froze before patting the pockets of his suit jacket. “Oh, shoot,” he stretched his mouth into a wide, convincing smile as he peered over his shoulder at the young couple directly behind. “Do you wanna cut ahead of us? I just need to find – honey, have you seen my-? Oh, here it is.”

Wilson snagged the corner of House’s jacket, and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Okay, what are you doing now?”

“I’m trying to time the line. I want to get her.” House nodded toward the woman with cropped hair and the two-sizes-too-big uniform shirt, which was draped over a single, drooping breast on her left side. “Just act naturally,” he whispered, as he edged forward. “Okay, you go first. No, wait.” He stepped forward suddenly, and made a show of dragging his leg behind him.

“Hi,” House barely made eye contact with the woman as he rooted around in his pockets and dropped the passport face up on the counter. “Oh darn.” An assortment of papers scattered across the floor, and he stooped to sweep them into an unwieldy pile, which he sorted into a neat stack on the counter, with the headed paper of Wilson’s appointment letter clearly visible on top. “My hospital appointment. Don’t want to lose it. They’re trying me on a new kind of chemo. Hopefully they can save what’s left of my leg.” He paused, and shook his head. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear my life story.” He held out his hand for the passport.

The woman thumped the entrance stamp down on a blank page, then slowly, and with purpose, drew the book toward her a little more. The rasp of the cover dragging against the counter mingled with the chatter from the neighboring booths, and stopped abruptly as she slotted two fingers into the back page.

House slouched a little and puffed out a slow, unhurried breath. “Would you believe that picture’s only two years old? I mean don’t get me wrong, the chemo diet is _fab-u-lous_. I can fit into my jeans from _college_. Still, it adds a lot of years.”

She glanced in the vague direction of the back page and then straight back at House. “Yes, I would believe it. You look great. Just a little tired. It comes back. Trust me.”

House let his hand rest on the passport with hers for about a second before he slowly drew it toward himself. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.” He staggered toward the row of hard grey chairs while Wilson went to retrieve their bags. _House one, empathy zip,_ he thought, as he stretched out his leg.

There was a hot pressure building beneath the skin of his thigh, like something was trying to burst free. Surreptitiously, with his jacket unbuttoned and pulled over his arm, he prodded two fingers into the cold, clammy skin of his wrist. He counted just twenty-seven beats at his radial pulse in the time it took for the second hand of his watch to sail from the three to the nine. _Shit, bradycardia, but only just._ Perhaps a fourth Vicodin was not such a good idea.

A fresh crowd of travelers were pressing themselves into a dense, jumbled queue behind the passport control gates. As they began to meander toward the exits, House spied Wilson weaving his way between a group of men and women in crumpled suits with the bags and House’s cane. He crossed the grubby floor and dropped into the chair beside House. “I can’t believe this is going so well. I keep expecting something to happen.”

House slipped his hand between the pressed folds of his suit pocket, and ran one finger along the edge of the Vicodin-stuffed gum packet. He had a sudden image of the disappointment on Wilson’s face if the stash were revealed by the baggage handlers. He forced the buttons back through the stiff buttonholes of his suit jacket. “I probably should have thought of this before we did the hard part, but maybe we should split up? No reason for us to both go down if something happens.”

Wilson quirked his shoulders in a shrug. “Okay, if you think so. I’m sure it’ll be fine, though. Like you say, we’ve done the hard part.” He hoisted his battered rucksack over his shoulder, and left House with his suitcase and cane. “See you on the other side.”

House watched Wilson traipse toward the exit before dragging himself to his feet. It felt as if somebody was shoving a hot poker through his leg. He grabbed the top of his cane, hard, and watched the color drain from his knuckles. With the other hand, he rolled the case toward his heels and took his first shaking step in the direction of the door. _Keep it together,_ he told himself. _If_ _Wilson_ _can sit that close and not realize anything’s wrong, they won’t notice either._

When he reached the wide green gates labeled _Nothing to Declare_ , Wilson was standing stock still at the front of the line, angling his wrist watch away from the fluorescent light. A Customs Officer with a starched collar was arguing with a lady in a fur coat with two large boxes of cigarettes under one arm. “Are you aware of the legal limit on cigarettes for personal use, Ma’am?”

He would have to arrive when the one guy who actually gave a crap about his job was on duty. The fur on the lady’s coat began to blur in front of his eyes, and House gave two quick blinks.

A small woman with a bleach-blonde bob and blue uniform shirt came bounding over. “Are you alright there?”

House had been working on a theory over many years. It was based on simple empiricism with a good dose of categorical syllogistic logic thrown in, and it went something like this: _every airport worker I have ever met is an idiot, this woman works at an airport; therefore this woman is an idiot_. As scientific models went, it was pretty airtight. He had repeated the experiment many times, there were no anomalies and his data had been verified by others.

There was a good chance this woman was not asking if he was okay because she had taken in the slow response time in his pupils, his pallor and his slow breathing. Ergo, there was a very good chance she would not search him and find the hidden drugs.

Nevertheless, he followed her gaze carefully, and stifled a sigh of relief when he saw her staring at the heavy bag and cane. _I’m getting a lot of mileage out of my cripple-at-the-airport card,_ he thought. _I wonder if I can get frequent pity miles._

He decided one good-natured imbecile deserved another, and answered her with a broad smile. “I’m fine, thanks. Probably shouldn’t have ditched passenger transport quite so soon.”

“Here, let me help you.” She took the handle of the case from him. “Oh, what a lovely bag. I love the pink bits. I might have to get myself one.”

Meanwhile the customs officer had let the woman go, and was waving Wilson toward the arrivals hall. He held up his hand, suddenly, and narrowed his eyes. “Is that all you have with you?”

Wilson glanced down at the backpack dangling from his right hand. “Oh, yeah, well you see I was on a road trip and I wasn’t really expecting to come here. All my stuff’s in storage in the US.”

“I see. Sir, would you mind putting the bag on the table?”

Wilson hoisted his bag onto the squat grey table, just as the woman swept past with House’s large, expensive case. She stood it upright behind the gate, and offered a hand to help him through.

House grasped her chubby fingers in his own. “Oh, you are a lamb.”

“Would you unzip the bag please, Sir?” The customs officer asked Wilson.

“All part of the service,” the woman told House.

The customs officer peered into Wilson’s bag. “Have you been drinking, Sir?”

“Well, a little. I mean, on the plane.”

“Are you here on holiday?” Bleach-blonde lady was asking House. “I mean vacation?”

“Mmhm. I see.” The customs official reached into the bag and drew out four Bacardi miniatures, two Sloe Gin and two French brandy miniatures and a tiny bottle of oak aged whiskey that had clearly been opened.

“Hospital appointment, I’m afraid.” House told the woman. “Still, I might fit in some sightseeing.”

Wilson blinked once at the collection of booze. “Oh, those. They were just part of a chess game I was playing. I wasn’t going to drink them all on the plane; that would have been stupid. So I saved the rest to have later.”

“And with whom were you playing this chess game, Sir?”

“Well, I- er,” Wilson paused, and deliberately looked away from where House was standing with one hand back on the handle of his case, talking about Buckingham Palace and Big Ben. “It was a man on the plane.”

“A man on the plane. I see, Sir.”

Meanwhile, bleach-blonde lady carried on, oblivious. “Well, you must go up on the eye while you’re here. And on the way back don’t be such a hero! Passenger transport is free - you might as well take advantage!”

“Okay, guess I’ll look after myself more,” House replied with a practiced, easy smile.

“That’s what we like to hear! Now, do you have somebody meeting you?

“I do, thank you.” House raised his voice a little, so Wilson could hear. “He’s going to meet me by the exits in a few minutes.”

The customs official finished running his fingers around the edges of the bottles and re-zipped Wilson’s bag. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, please.”

“Guess I’ll go find a cab,” House said to no one in particular.

He was still dreading Wilson’s recriminations when the cab deposited them on the narrow curb outside their West London hotel. It was therefore something of a surprise when Wilson grabbed the luggage from the porter, all but dragged him through the door of their room, glanced wildly about for a split second and pulled him by the arm into the full-length closet, sweeping the hangers to the end of the rail as he did so. “I can’t believe you joined the mile-high club without me.”

Wilson’s back and the sole of one shoe were flat against the closet wall, so that his thigh came up between House’s legs as he pulled House against him.

House dipped his head so that his mouth and nose were against Wilson’s neck. He breathed in and scraped his teeth against Wilson’s stubbled, salty skin. “I didn’t. I swear. I waited.” He pressed the palms of his hands firmly against the sides of Wilson’s face and pushed their lips together.

House could still feel the pressure in his ears from the flight, and Wilson’s groans sounded muffled, as if his head were wrapped in cloth. The sun was yet to make an appearance, and the occasional drone of a passing car outside the window sounded a little like the hum of jet engines. It was like they were in limbo – no longer in the air, but not quite on the ground either.

Wilson shoved the closet door closed, shrouding them in near-darkness. He unzipped them both before bringing one hand up to the back of House’s head and letting the other trail up and down House’s bicep. House shifted his hips so that he could get a hand under Wilson’s ass, and there was a dull clank as the trouser press flopped open. He was dimly aware of it prodding him in the small of the back as he brought Wilson off with long, grinding strokes against his own cock.

Afterwards, they kicked off their shoes and crawled on top of the bedcovers. House lay flat on his back with his fly gaping, and Wilson folded himself around House’s arm. House let his eyelids slowly drift together, as he brought his other arm across their bodies and teased the sweat-dampened strands of hair at the back of Wilson’s head with his fingers.

It was then that House realized he hadn’t told Wilson about the three Vicodin tablets he’d swallowed in the men’s room, and that was important somehow. He turned his head, and forced his dry eyelids to part against the artificial light. When he looked down, Wilson’s mouth had fallen open and his breathing was shallow. He tried, three times, to move his fingers from where they were resting at the base of Wilson’s skull and squeeze Wilson’s shoulder, but each time he found that his eyes had drifted shut again without his consent.

In the seconds before House totally lost consciousness, a panicked, nonsensical voice leapt into his mind. _He doesn’t know what I did._

-<> <> <> <> <> <> -

NHS Boy  
A Junior Doctor’s Blog  
_25th May 2012_

We’ve all heard them, told like horror stories over the proverbial campfire: tales of unnecessary surgeries, mistakenly amputated limbs, healthy organ removal and life-threatening overdoses. I’m talking, of course, about reported NHS blunders.

But just how common are these harrowing incidents? Do the soundbites and headlines represent the tip of the iceberg, or the scrapings from the bottom of a large barrel of otherwise competent patient care?

I was left pondering this very question yesterday, during my very last set of rounds as a junior doctor, when I went to see Heather.* This young waitress moved to the UK a few years ago from a sub-Saharan African country, and was admitted with a serious gastrointestinal virus. A week later, she had suffered total hearing loss.

My first instinct was to send her for a battery of tests, since the condition with which she had been diagnosed is not known to be associated with auditory problems. However, I was soon informed by an anonymous member of staff that her condition had not been caused by the virus, but by the nursing staff leaving in the IV she had been given for her diarrhea for too long. The hearing loss is, sadly, irreversible, and it is unlikely that Heather will be able to return to her job, surely leaving her struggling to support herself while she learns how to communicate with the hearing and deaf communities alike.

You might think at this point that things couldn’t get much worse for Heather, but you’d be wrong.

Once I had finished reviewing the patient’s notes, I went to ask the senior registrar for advice on how to proceed. She advised me in no uncertain terms that I must avoid telling the patient what had caused her life-shattering disability unless directly pressed for an answer.

You can understand her reasoning. Parliament has recently reported that one seventh of the NHS budget in the last financial year was spent on settling negligence claims. My department is increasingly overstretched, under-funded and understaffed, and it’s not surprising that the nursing staff made such a catastrophic mistake. There’s also the very real question of how Heather herself will react to the news. After all, would you rather be grateful that you had been saved from a much worse illness by a team of dedicated doctors and nurses, or angered that human negligence had destroyed your quality of life? Do bear in mind, of course, that neither feeling will make the problem go away, the only difference is in how easy it is to take the news.  

Nevertheless, I was left in an ethical quandary. I’m unsure of this woman’s work status, and without compensation it’s likely that she will have to return to her country of origin, where she will not receive the support she needs to lead a functioning life. I can’t help wondering if this would have happened to Heather had she been white and English, with her family around to support her. Wouldn’t speaking up make people think twice the next time somebody with her background arrives on the ward?

Still, penalties for whistleblowing in the NHS are severe, and there’s no way I can tell Heather why she is in this position without it getting back to the senior doctors on my ward that I went against the instructions of my registrar.

I returned home from the night shift, as usual, just as my wife was about to leave for work for the day. I briefly told her about the situation and my worries for the unfortunate woman’s future. “What would you do?” I asked her, as she crammed her sandwiches into her bag.

“I’d drop a hint,” she replied, before kissing me on the cheek and dashing out of the door. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

*All names in NHS Boy’s column are pseudonyms. 

-<> <> <> <> <> <> -

House rips the reading glasses from his nose, and thumps the side of his hand against the table, sending ripples through the water in the glass in front of him. He drags a huge, slow breath through his nostrils and watches the water tremble and settle.

The tumbler itself is flecked with translucent marks from the dishwasher (trisodium phosphate, dust), and the light from the laptop is filtering through them, throwing faint grey shadows onto the surface of the water.

House focuses on one impossibly tiny smudge, and imagines the trillions of particles globbing together. There is a kind of tranquility there, as if time is slowing down, and so he imagines the molecules of glass. He can see each atom of silicone, the minuscule protons and neutrons and the vast distances between them. He calculates the forces holding the atoms together and estimates how much energy it would take to split them apart (theoretical value, 435 KJ mol-1, but he could make a few cracks with just 75MPa of pressure, judging by the dimensions and flaw sizes).

The molecules of water in the glass are similarly simple, and, after all they are all composed of the same elementary particles. If he concentrates he can see the quarks and fermions in the glass, he can see their charge, their mass, their spin; and the way they are moving relative to the particles in the water, the table and the haphazardly trampled fibers in the carpet. One by one he extends his focus to the other objects in the room.

Soon he can envision every single molecule between the walls and every molecule in the walls. It doesn’t matter that there are so many of them, because they are all pulsing with the same inexorable precision.

He realizes that if he focuses hard enough he can see it all; the entire universe and every single mathematical law holding it all together - because it’s all the same. Everything is connected by the same energy, the same forces, and the same laws of probability.

It’s perfect.

It’s perfect, and it is totally and completely empty.

The universe is vast, yawning – perhaps infinite. Yet for every apparent wonder there is an explanation; every uneducated imbecile who proclaims “I am unique, I am special, _God loves me,”_ can be reduced to the same simple laws of physics.

 _No meaning,_ House thinks, desperately.

He feels spread thin, suddenly, as if he too is being reduced. In his mind’s eye he sees the countless particles that make him unravel and scatter into the air.

But Wilson is in the room. If House listens hard, he can hear the sound of each shallow breath being sucked through his nostrils.

He snaps out of it with a tiny choking sound, and remembers why he doesn’t normally allow that particular train of thought to go so far.

House stares at the curve of Wilson’s back. _You’re the only anchor I’ve ever had,_ he thinks. _When you’re gone I’ll be swallowed up; I’ll be flung into this stupid, insane void and I won’t even care._ The piercing ring of the telephone makes him flinch.

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose as he snatches it from the plastic cradle. “Hello? Er, yeah, sure. Hang on.” He extends his arm and points the phone at House with one slow, deliberate gesture. “It’s Estrada. For you.”

-<> <> <> <> <> <> -

**Three days earlier**

It was an accident that House had ever met Dr. Kingsley Estrada.

He and Wilson were sitting on tattered foam chairs in what Norris had called _the hospital across the street_. It was, in fact, separated from one of the world’s leading cancer hospitals by a narrow, potholed road in which ambulances were parked haphazardly with their wheels bumped up onto the curb. ( _Only in_ _England_ _,_ Wilson had said, as they made their way through the side-door in search of what was meant to be marginally less terrible coffee.)

House thumbed the plastic lid away from the tiny take-out cup and tore the end off the long packet of sugar. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

Wilson shifted in his seat to make way for yet another family. “The way things run around here? Could be anything from three minutes to three hours.”

The man with the large ears in the opposite seat hugged his cane to his chest, and bent toward them. “Are you here for the CFS clinic?”

House blinked, twice. “The _what?”_

“Dr. Estrada’s Chronic Fatigue Syndrome clinic. I’ve got fibromyalgia myself, but he’s been very helpful. Always ready to lend an ear, or write a letter to the benefits people. He said something about putting his admin slots in between appointments, so it normally runs to time.”

House stretched a flat smile across his face. “No, thank you, we’re waiting for a real doctor.”

“ _What_ did he say?” A woman’s voice cut through the background din of typing and chatter.

Big-eared guy chose to interpret the question literally, and turned to address the lithe undergrad-aged girl sitting on the row of chairs back-to-back with House and Wilson. “We were talking about the CFS clinic. Are you here to see Dr. Estrada too?”

The girl swiveled in her seat with her legs bent beneath her, and propped herself up on her shoeless feet. “I have ME, not CFS.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“People with CFS just have fatigue. I am not fatigued, I am ill.” She raised her voice, and stared at House. “ _Really_ ill. That’s why I _am_ seeing a _Real Doctor.”_

Three guys in tee-shits and an assortment of trilbies were sprawled in the seats around her. The guy with the least bloodshot eyes shoved a packet of Rizlas into his pocket and drew himself up. “She’s right, you know. It’s about time the bloody quacks took her seriously.”

Big-eared guy continued to smile benignly. “I have fibromyalgia myself.”

House tensed in his seat, and regarded him, silently, through the narrowed slit of his left eye.

Meanwhile, Rizla guy nodded in sympathy. “Oh, man, that’s so terrible. They reckon Will’s got that.”

Still-stoned-off-his-ass trilby dude peered over the edge of his seat. “Yeah, it’s totes lame. I’ve had to give up my guitar and everything until the pain clinic get my meds right.”

“It’s not the pain clinic just north of the river, is it?” The man with the small child nestled against his mismatched suit and tie asked. “Because you want to give them a wide berth. They tried to get my daughter to see a psychiatrist.”

“No, it was another one.”

“Good thing, too. Bloody cheek. I told the guy there that she goes into convulsions and I once found her passed out in a room just because we were letting too much light in through the windows. Do these doctors even understand about photosensitivity and ME? I mean, all their patients tell them, but no – they won’t have it.”

Still-stoned guy’s eyes were like two bloodshot saucers. “Woah, that’s just … woah. Yeah. Bloody quacks, man.”

Beside him, the third trilby guy had started rocking back and forth and tapping himself at various highly specific points around his body. “I’m not doing ME any more,” he muttered, between taps. “I am not doing ME any more.”

Wilson had been observing House out of the corner of one eye. He laid the backs of his fingers over House’s forearm. “House, don’t say anything.”

“Who, me?”

“I’m serious, I can practically see the sarcasm centers of your brain firing up.”

Still-stoned guy appeared to have a thought. “Hey, if your kid had to go to the pain clinic does that mean she has fibromyalgia too?”

A hospital porter with short sleeves and bulging arms dragged a wheelchair beside the rows of chairs. The man slumped in it peered through a pair of thick dark glasses. “Fibromyalgia!”

The porter flicked on the brakes, and addressed the man in a voice at least ten decibels above the general volume of the room. “Yes, Mr. Phillips, they’re talking about Fibromyalgia. ” He turned to the group of half-stoned trilby wearers. “Mr. Phillips has fibromyalgia too.”

“And the rash!” Mr. Phillips informed the room. “Horrible rash.”

“If you have a rash,” the girl informed him primly. “You may find that your blood is too acidic.”

House spluttered out a laugh.

“House,” Wilson hissed. “I’m serious.

Fortunately, the girl was too busy educating Mr. Phillips on the merits of her theory to offer any further reprimands. “If you eat cheese, bacon or peanuts, for example, you could find you are making your blood so acidic it prevents the oxygen from getting in. Any nuts, in fact. We shouldn’t eat nuts, really.”

“What nuts?” Mr. Phillips narrowed his eyes. “Who’s nuts?”

Big-eared guy attempted to rescue the conversation. “Well, Dr. Estrada suggested a warm bath and a drop of chamomile tea before bed…”

“See, that’s great,” a delayed smile flitted across the girl’s pale face. “Herbal teas are alkaline. So are lemons. I always put slices of lemon in everything.”

“I wonder if she’s considered pitching that to any of the big pharmaceuticals,” House muttered. “They could really lower their production costs.”

Big-eared guy went on. “Dr. Estrada also says that Tai Chi can be a good form of exercise.”

“Oh, here we go,” Angry Father piped up again. “Dr. Estrada with his Tai Chi. My daughter’s far too young for Tai Chi, anyway. Not that he even bothered to ask whether she had the strength or stamina for it. She doesn’t.” He folded his arms above his child’s head, which was nestled against his lap. “Orthostatic intolerance.” He nodded, once, as if that concluded the matter.

Rizla guy turned to big-eared guy. “I reckon Tai Chi probably works for adults, though, right?”

“Oh, probably. I’m not sure I quite have the hang of it, though. I’m more of a crossword before bed chap, really.”

Rizla guy tilted his head, as if he was onto something. “Yeah, but seriously, though, it’s like the headmind and bodymind theory, yeah? So, like, your headmind is saying I’ve got ME, I can’t do that, but Tai Chi, like, frees up your bodymind to do all the thinking. Then your bodymind knows you can do it after all. It totally bypasses the headmind!”

House spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Something’s, like, totally bypassing somebody’s headmind.” He fluttered his eyelashes inanely.

Wilson turned his head as if to gaze, nonchalantly toward the desk on the other side of House’s seat. His mouth was inches from House’s ear as he whispered, “House, for the _third_ time _,_ _don’t_ say anything.”

Trilby guy’s rocking became more pronounced. “I’m not doing ME anymore. I’m not _doing_ ME anymore.”

“Oh, the rash. Blotchy, red, horrible,” Mr. Phillips muttered at his shoes.

The girl had her head in both hands. “I know what you’re saying about the whole headmind thing, but I really think you need to focus more on medical stuff. You know, like diet.”

“But that’s what I was saying a minute ago. You’re listening to your headmind. You’ve got to listen more to your bodymind.”

House’s fingers curled around the top of his cane.

“House. Do. Not. Say. Anything.”

“Horrible rash.”

“You can correct your electromagnetic field with shoe magnets.”

“There, there, settle down, Mr. Phillips!”

“I’m not _doing_ ME.”

Wilson tried again. “Do.”

“All I was going to say-” House began.

“Not.”

“-is you’ve got people with no real medical insight or help, making up medical diagnoses-”

“Say.”

“That might as well have come from a cereal box. These people-”

“Anything.”

“-need help!”

Angry Father exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry, did you have something you wanted to add?” A sea of expectant faces turned toward House.

“Well, since you asked me,” House tilted his head at Wilson, _“A Direct Question.”_ He dragged himself upright. “There _were_ a couple of things. You.” He poked the dusty black end of his cane into the air in front of Angry Father’s nose. “Has your kid been out in the sun much lately?

“As I was trying to explain, ME causes extreme photosensitivity-“

“Yeah, yeah, half-educated pseudo-medicine, blah, blah. I heard you the first time. Hey, sweetheart,” he peered at the crook of his arm, where the girl had her head buried in the checked cotton. “Daddy likes to shout, huh?”

She shifted her head, and peered through the mesh of her tousled brown hair.

“Hold up your hand.”

She raised one hand in front of her, and House tilted up her palm with his index finger. “See that? Nobody gets a suntan in the creases of their palms. Your kid has Addison’s Disease. You need the doctor to give her an MRI and synacthen stimulation test. I’m sure you can file it away in your head with all the other big long medical words you’ve learned. As for you,” he took three steps in the direction of Mr. Phillips. “Spent much time in RichmondPark?

Mr. Phillips peered up at House. “Is this Raymond?”

“Never mind.”

“Mr. Phillips lives in Suffolk, actually,” the porter supplied.

“I’ve no idea where that is.” House fished his phone from his pocket, and slid his finger across the screen. “Hold on one second. Ah ha! Thetford Forest?”

“Thetford Forest!” Mr. Phillips’ head shot up and his face split into a grin. “Sorry, Bill, I thought you were Raymond. Is it time to go to Thetford Forest again?”

“Thetford Forest is not only a haven for deer, but for their little friends the blacklegged ticks and their even littler friends borrelia burgdorferi; lyme disease. That blotchy red rash you had wasn’t a rash at all, but the result of your being infected with lyme many, many times. Your doctor needs to give you a lyme panel.” He swiveled around to face the seats directly behind him. “You, guitar-pain dude, you need to get an MRI of your cervical spine. Your friend there needs to spend less time staying up playing computer games and burning doobies, and you, and you-” he turned to big-eared guy and the girl. “Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with you two. Unless you think this ME doctor has some kind of cure for chronic banality and know-it-all-itis.”

There was an abrupt, gravelly sound, as a man somewhere behind House’s left shoulder cleared his throat.

House and Wilson swiveled to see a middle-aged man in a tailored suit with a neat boomerang of hair around the back of his head. He tugged at his waistcoat and straightened his paisley dickie bow. “Those are some fairly forceful opinions you’re expressing to my patients, if you don’t mind me saying.”

House opened his mouth, and clasped his hands with mock joy. “Dr. Quacksalver, I presume. Your patients have been telling me so much about you.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a drug-addicted ex-stockbroker. 

Dr. Estrada drew himself up to his full height, and raised his voice. “I strongly advise you against listening to this man.”

“Why, because I don’t have a set of letters after my name? Jesus, you don’t need an advanced degree to see that these people have serious medical problems. As scientific facts go, it’s on a par with the fact the Earth goes round the Sun. Or wait, does the Sun go round the Earth? As a mere stockbroker I don’t have the scientific credentials to tell.” He turned to Wilson. “Honey, does the Earth go round the Sun, or is it the other way around. I forget.”

“Look, that’s enough.” Dr. Estrada took two slow paces toward them. “Gentlemen, could I have a word, please? In my consulting room?”

Wilson swung his head toward the exit. “Look, I’m not sure. We’re supposed to be meeting someone here-”

“It will only take a moment.” He addressed the porter. “What time is Mr. Phillips’ transport due?”

“Not ‘til six, they said.”

“Perfect. While you’re waiting, could you keep an eye out for a…?”

“Dr. Norris,” Wilson supplied.

“For a Dr. Norris, here to see?”

“Dr. Wilson.”

“Here to see Dr. Wilson. Right. This way, please.”

They followed him into a spacious consulting room and reluctantly pulled the cheap plastic chairs in front of the desk.

Dr. Estrada dropped into the high-backed chair on the other side. “Now, Dr. Wilson, and – I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Oliver Fairholme,” House replied.

“Mr. Fairholme, right.” He leaned back in his chair, and straightened the dickie bow again.“I’m a little curious as to why you were offering medical advice to my patients.”

“I figured it was about time somebody did,” House shot back.

Wilson rolled his eyes toward the flimsy ceiling panels. “Oliver…”

House folded his hands in his lap, and lowered his voice. “Look, they were reasonable diagnoses. There’s a guy in a wheelchair with confusion and pain that’s been misdiagnosed as fibromyalgia. He’s also spent time in Thetford forest and reports a blotchy rash. It stands to reason that he must have lyme disease.”

“It might interest you to know that Mr. Phillips is a new patient. It just so happens that asking whether any rashes present with the characteristic target shape is a standard feature of my practice here, and I have sent patients for lyme panels in the past.”

“You’ve seen that kid before, though, haven’t you? Did you really not notice that she has hyperpigmentation consistent with Addison’s?”

“Look, I’m sure you’ve seen somebody with Addison’s on ER or Green Wing, or whatever people watch these days, but-” Estrada leaned forward and clasped his hands over the perfectly straight rectangle of notepaper on his desk. “Where was the hyperpigmentation? Just out of curiosity.”

House twisted his mouth into a smirk. “Don’t worry about not getting it, it’s not like it was anywhere obvious like her hands… oh wait, it was. Add that to convulsions, lethargy and temporary loss of consciousness and you have yourself one case of adrenal insufficiency. I told the dad to get an MRI and synacthen stimulation test to confirm.”

“I see. That’s not a bad catch.” He turned to Wilson. “And you are a doctor of?”

“Oncology. I was head of department at Princeton-Plainsborountil last month.”

“Impressive. You wouldn’t happen to have any identification, would you?” He peered at the laminated card Wilson fished from the wallet in his jacket pocket. “I see. And you concur with his diagnosis?”

Wilson folded his wallet back into his jacket and spread his hands. “He’s pretty good at this sort of thing. If he says it’s Addison’s it probably is. If you’re asking for my opinion as a doctor, though, I’d probably have come to the same conclusion about most of those patients given more time. Oliver’s … well, he’s a pretty quick thinker. Personally I’d refer the girl for the tests.”

“Interesting.” There was a tiny creak as Estrada leaned back against the chair once more. “Oliver, I do believe I have a proposition for you. Do you have any knowledge of imaging, genetics, histology?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I wonder if I could get your opinion.” He raised the receiver on the white plastic telephone and punched a button. “Hello, is Bradley still there? Yes, please. Thank you.” He dropped the phone back into the cradle. “Look, it’s a rather sensitive matter. In fact I can barely believe I’m asking this at all, but we’ve got a bit of a mystery patient on our hands. I can’t tell you his identity for obvious reasons, but, well, let’s just say his parents are two of our most generous benefactors. He has what we’re pretty sure is the type II variant of neurofibromatosis. It’s hard to tell from x-rays, but the tumor appears to be spread across the top of his thigh, and may even be encroaching on the base of his spine.

“Now, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that surgery could be extremely risky here. Just about every neurologist, oncologist, surgeon and surgical fellow on the staff has been called in for a consultation. I started life as a neurologist, and I still run an Alzheimer’s clinic here, so they’ve called me in too. Nevertheless, we’re finding it very difficult to reach a consensus. Some left-field thinking, to use a metaphor from your country, might just push us in a new direction. If you understand me?”

Wilson forced his gaping mouth closed, shook his head and let his mouth fall open again. “I understand that we’re two strangers who’ve walked in off the street, and you’re asking us for a differential diagnosis.”

Dr. Estrada cleared his throat, and squirmed a little against the chair. “It’s just that it’s incredibly difficult to get funding for a CFS clinic. A lot of these people have nowhere else to turn, and most of the medical profession don’t even believe they’re sick. If I don’t start bringing in some more funding they’ll shut us down, and, well these particular benefactors _had_ expressed an interest in my work. Not to mention that their child is facing the very real possibility of lower limb paralysis or amputation.

“We have an anonymous version of the case history we screened in a lecture theatre that you’d be welcome to have a look at. If you’re interested, of course. I might even be able to arrange for access to the samples. Supervised access, of course.”

House spoke in a low, deep voice, in the direction of Wilson’s shoes. “Hey, this is your call. You know that, right? We do whatever you want to do.”

Dr. Estrada glanced from House to Wilson, and then back to House. “Are you in the UK for long?”

“Not really,” Wilson replied. “Why?”

“I was just thinking. London prices can put a bit of a dent in your budget. It just so happens that I’m a silent partner in a small business on the corner of Baker Street and George Street. It’s a youth hostel, above which is a very generously proportioned serviced apartment. For the moment it’s completely empty, and I’m sure I could arrange for you to have it for a week at cost. Two if you prefer. Since it’s my business partner who does the servicing, I’m sure I could even do you a deal there.”

House sat up straight. “Wait, are you actually offering us an incentive?”

Estrada cleared his throat again. A faint pink flush bloomed from beneath his stiff collar and dickie bow, and crept up his neck. “No, no, of course not. I just thought I’d mention it. You’d be very welcome to look at the apartment regardless. I was simply raising a separate point.”

“Pity,” House slumped back against the plastic seat. “I was just starting to like you.”

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, and was interrupted by two sharp raps and a creak. Mr. Phillips’ porter stepped through the door. “Er, sorry to disturb you, but Dr. Norris is here, and, um?” He glanced at the young, wiry man with neat black hair who stepped in behind him.

“Ah,” Estrada tapped the desk. “Bradley! This is my colleague, Dr. Street. He’s been working on the neurofibromatosis case. Dr. Street, this is Dr. Wilson and Mr. Fairholme.

Wilson grasped Dr. Street’s hand in a reluctant shake and let out a heavy sigh. One corner of his mouth tilted up as he looked House in the eye. “Oh, go ahead. I was wondering how I was going to explain you to Norris, anyway.”

House spoke in that same, low voice. “Are you sure?”

Wilson stood, and squeezed House’s shoulder, briefly. “I’ll be fine. Meet you back in the waiting room after?” He nodded at Estrada and followed the porter through the door, leaving House alone with the other two men.

Estrada stood, and slowly rounded the corner of his desk. “Mr. Fairholme is a research consultant who’s offered his opinion on the patient. I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to go through all the background checks, so you’ll have to show him the non-sensitive variation of the presentation we gave yesterday. Oh, and could you act as the supervising doctor in the lab? Unfortunately I’m in clinic right now.”

Dr. Street stretched a rigid arm toward House. “Mr. Fairholme.”

House’s face split into a grin. “Please, call me Oliver.”

Dr. Street did no such thing. Standing stiffly with an ancient laptop whirring on the bench beside the laboratory counters a few minutes later, he managed to refer to House as “Mr. Fairholme” for a third time. “And as you can see, Mr. Fairholme, the top of the mass is clearly defined on the sagittal view both with and without contrast. However, the left inferior side is less distinct.”

House glanced up, before fiddling with the microscope condenser and peering through the lens. “Did this thing come with a junior slide set?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“Forget it. I need a high-resolution electron microscope. Preferably a TEM.”

“This is a general pathology lab. I’m afraid we don’t have one. There are a few more slides that I could show y-”

“Yeah, maybe later. I like to pace myself with the really fun stuff. In the meantime I need a better image. Can we go to the specialist path labs?”

“They’re at a different site.”

“Research labs? Teaching labs?”

Street shook his head, before pursing his lips. “There is a QC lab on the fourth floor, but I’m not sure what the procedure is for-”

“Had you thought about knocking and asking?”

“Well, I’m not sure Dr. Estrada-”

“Come on,” House snatched the samples from the counter and headed for the door, while Street hastily gathered up the laptop and notes.

He caught up with House in the corridor. “Dr. Estrada really was quite specific in his instructions that we were to stay in the general pathology lab,” he said as they stepped into the wide, rickety elevator.

House pushed the button for the fourth floor. “Does he make you get a bathroom pass to show the hall monitor, too?”

“I’m not sure I know what a hall monitor is, but I really think we should ask Dr. Estrada if he’d mind calling the QC lab to ask if we would be able to use the TEM.”

“Duly noted. Since we’re sharing random thoughts that have no bearing on what actually happens here, _I_ don’t think you should wear that tie with those shoes. It is _not_ working for you. Also, there are three drawbacks to your plan. One, it would take too long; two, they might say no; and three, I don’t want to.” He stepped out of the elevator and pressed the security buzzer outside the locked double doors. There was a click, as the door released without anybody bothering to ask who they were. “Great security you have in this country.” House strolled into the narrow hall and rounded the corner. Street fell into step beside him just as two women in pencil skirts came scurrying toward them.

House glanced hastily at his watch. “Excuse me, I am _so_ sorry to bother you. We’re running kind of late. Is the boss still in the office?”

“He was last time I looked.” One of the women replied over the stack of files she was carrying. “Know where you’re going?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” House waited until the women had swung open the door of the copy room, before snagging a lab coat from the pegs on the wall and veering into the spacious chrome lab.

Street paused with one arm flung across the open door. “I think the offices are further down the corridor.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to speak to the boss, I just asked if he was in his office. And he is. Good to know.”

“Sir, this really is enough. I am going to have to insist that you come with me, or else I shall go and fetch Dr. Estrada.”

House snapped his eyes open as wide as they would go. “Well, I’m not coming with you.”

“Fine.” Dr. Street turned on his heel, and let the door fall closed behind him.

House shook his head, and began preparing the slides. He was just focusing the image on the last one when a stout man in a grimy lab coat ambled through the doors.

“Alright, mate?” He slouched and lazily peered through the gaps in the equipment. “Haven’t seen you before.”

“I’m Oliver; the new guy.”

“Another one? I can’t keep up.” He began peering around the room again. “Listen, you haven’t seen the bloke that was working on that bench over there?” He nodded at the far side of the lab. “Round glasses, looks a bit like Scooter from The Muppets?”

“Nope, sorry.”

He scribbled on a white, branded post-it and held it out to House. “Make sure he sees this, will you?”

House pinched the note between his thumb and forefinger and read the looped scrawl. _‘Have taken 5x1L saline back to store room. Pls fill in blue form. Thnx, Rob.’_ He stuck it to the counter beside the microscope. “No problem.”

Rob was already traipsing back toward the exit. He haphazardly raised an arm as he went. “Thanks, mate.”

House waited until the door had swung shut, before crossing the lab to inspect the bench. Three forms in various stages of completion were laid neatly side-by-side, and beside them were two clear ziplocked bags. It was the first one that caught his eye. Inside it were a handful of dusty white tablets. The typed label read ‘hydrocodone-acetaminophen x20’, and another white post-it had been stuck at an angle underneath, informing him: ‘Friability good (0.01!) Pls do IR test and paperwork, Rob J.’

House looked around the lab, and then back at the packet. There was no getting away from it: he was standing alone in a room with an unguarded packet of Vicodin.

He thought of the pills from the gum packets, which were now safely in the bottle inside his pants pocket. He was down to just 19 tablets.

There was a creak, and the door swung inward. House snatched the packet from the counter, crammed it into his pocket and slowly made his way back to where he’d been working. “Hey,” he said to the guy who’d just walked in. “You really do look like Scooter from The Muppets.”

“Let me guess,” Scooter strolled over to the microscope with House. “You’ve been talking to Rob.”

“Sure have. He had some messages for you, actually.” House leaned back against the counter. “Now let me see, what were they? Oh yes, he said you needed to fill out a blue form for the five one-liter salines that he’s taken to the store room. Oh, and apparently there was a batch of Vicodin that failed the friability test? He says he’s had to get rid of all of it. Now, what form was that…?”

“The pink one?”

“Right, the pink one.”

“No worries. I’ll just go down to the office.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, and sauntered out of the room, passing Estrada and Street as he did so.

Estrada tugged down his waistcoat and straightened his spine. “Mr. Fairholme, Dr. Street here informs me that you have gained access to this highly controlled area without seeking permission. I really do think it’s best for all of us if you leave before I have to call security.”

“Yeah, well I _really do think_ that if you care as much about your precious funding as you say you do, you’ll do what’s necessary to help this kid. Waiting five days for some overpaid bureaucrats to push pieces of paper around the hospital before they let you use their microscope for _two minutes_ is not going to save him.”

Estrada’s shoulders sagged. “Look, clearly this was a mistake. I accept full responsibility for what has transpired here, but that is enough. Mr. Fairholme, your services are no longer required.”

“Fine.” House snatched the sample from the microscope and dumped it on the counter beside them. “Oh, and by the way your neurofibromatosis patient doesn’t have neurofibromatosis at all. You’ll need to confirm it with a genetic test, but the calcium deposits in the sample you showed me suggest early Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva. If you cut him open you’ll cause a flare-up that will probably kill him inside of three years. Just thought I’d mention it. You know.” He planted his cane on the polished floor, and stalked out of the room.

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The Oracle  
_26th May_

The BMA has become the latest in a string of high-profile organizations to demand an end to the anonymity of the popular blogger NHS Boy.

The demands follow the most recent entry in the doctor’s blog, in which he appeared to write publicly about one of his patients. Usually information about a patient is only divulged with express written consent, or as part of the case history of a “composite” patient, in order to protect doctor-patient confidentiality.

However, in NHS Boy’s blog yesterday (25th May), he appeared to give details about a female patient who had suffered hearing loss, which included her occupation, nationality, initial diagnosis and some details of her treatment.

Yesterday, a third woman came forward stating that she had lost her hearing while receiving treatment at a London hospital. Previously two other women had expressed concern that they may have been the patient about whom NHS Boy was writing.

NHS Boy is yet to comment.

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House dumped the phone back in the cradle. “Estrada’s coming over. He should be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Do you think he can do anything?”

“I doubt it. Still, he might know the identity of our mystery doctor.”

This time Wilson doesn’teven make a sound in response, and House doesn’t know what to say, so he strides back to the window and tries to peer around the edge of the drapes once more.

From his vantage point on the sixth floor, the milling crowds have an insect-like quality as they scurry along the sidewalk directly below. House wishes he could reach out and swat them aside. For one instant he actually feels he could do it.

Wilson has a way of making him feel that the impossible should be possible.

The roar of the crowds seems to have dulled, and as House stretches up on his good leg, he can just about make out the top of Mrs. Henson’s head, bowed over a wide blue tray. “Is she…?”

Wilson rubs his eyes. “Is who what?”

“Estrada’s boundary-challenged business partner. I think she’s handing out tea and biscuits.

Wilson shakes his head twice. “Oh good, that’s all we need. Mrs. Henson talking to people about us.”

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**Two days earlier**

House eyed the small silver characters nailed to the wooden door frame. “22B1 is not a door number.”

“In what way?” Mrs. Henson turned the key in the lock, and pushed open the door.

“What do you mean, ‘ _In what way’?_ In the way that it’s not a door number. The letter’s meant to go at the end. You know like 22B or 22A or 221 _B._ In fact that last one is my old door number. That’s kinda how I know.”

“We’ve already got a 22A. That’s the youth hostel on floors 1-5.” She flicked the switch by the door, sending a flare of orange light across the high Victorian ceiling. “This is 22 B-for-balcony-level. It’s not licensed for commercial use, but we can get round it if we say it’s residential on a short let. It’s been split into two units, so you’re 22B1, and I’m 22B2. That reminds me, if a man from the council comes round to assess the tax band, just lock the box room and tell him it’s a cupboard.”

House nudged at Wilson with his elbow. “Just as well we don’t mind sharing, eh Jimmy?”

“Is there an en suite bathroom?” Wilson raised his voice as he stepped in front of House.

“No, it’s just the one, I’m afraid.” She pushed down on the handle to her left, and swung open the heavy door to reveal a cavernous white and chrome bathroom suite with a deep oval bathtub surrounded by tiled steps.

“Plenty of room for two.” House flicked his gaze from Wilson’s face to his groin. “Of course, that’s if you’ve gotten over your possessiveness with the bathtub.” He leaned on his cane and addressed Mrs. Henson. “There was this loft where we used to live with only one tub-”

“She doesn’t want to know, _Oliver._ Mrs. Henson, I’m sorry, just ignore him.” He turned and glared at House. “I don’t know what’s got into him today.”

“Oh that’s fine, I don’t mind, dear.” She turned to House. “I get it, you’re trying to tell me you’re gay men.”

“Well we’re not lesbians.”

“You shouldn’t make fun of lesbians. I’m one of them, you know.” She opened the kitchen door, and gestured along the immaculate counter. “Kettle, coffee maker, dishwasher. Kitchen cleaned and towels changed once a week on a Monday. If you want towels sooner, push a note under my door.”

She shuffled past them and stepped across the entrance hall into the living room. “I go by _Mrs._ Henson, but it’s only because it wasn’t easy to get divorced in the late 60s, so I never bothered. I tried it once more with a man, mind. Recently, in fact. He rented this place two people before you. Or was it three? No, two. One day I found him in my cupboard masturbating with my scarf and handbag wrapped around his shoulders. This is the dimmer switch for the living room, by the way.” She slid the switch until the shadows in the corners of the room melted away. “The standard lamps are separate. You’ll figure it out. So anyway, there I am on my way back from Tesco with the shopping when I find the tenant in my room. ‘What are you doing breaking and entering?’ I said. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought this was my flat.’ Really, that was the best he could come up with. Still, I suppose the blood had been diverted from his brain at the time. Box room’s over here, single bed, extra blankets at the top of the wardrobe. Key’s in the door. ‘Ever heard of a helping hand?’ I said. Well, you can use your imagination from there. Very overrated experience, if you ask me. I thought so when I was married, and I think so now. Well, that’s everything. Cup of tea while you’re thinking it over?”

House finally remembered to blink. “Oh my god, we _have_ to live here. _Please, please?_ ”

Mrs. Henson turned up the corners of her mouth with vague detachment as she looked toward House. “You like it then, do you, dear?”

Wilson massaged the pressure points along his right eyebrow, before dropping his hand and letting out a barely audible sigh. “How much?”

“£300 a week. I can’t possibly do it for less. Money in advance, I’m afraid.”

Wilson dug in his pocket for his wallet. “Well, it is cheaper than the hotel.”

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NHS Boy  
A Junior Doctor’s Blog  
27th May 2012

One of the first things I learned in my third year at medical school is that there are four stages to making a differential diagnosis. First you list the patient’s symptoms, then you list the possible causes for those symptoms, thirdly you prioritise said symptoms in order of importance, and finally you eliminate wrong diagnoses until you’re left with the answer.

This process was once a mainstay of the practitioner’s intellectual toolkit. However, with budget cuts and staffing levels in some hospitals at an all-time low, the time needed to make a differential diagnosis at all is sadly lacking.

In fact, so far have the standards at our own hospital fallen, that one of our senior consultants has taken to using the services of an amateur diagnostician, a former stockbroker with a substance abuse problem, who, in order to protect his identity and that of my hospital, we will simply call Mr FH.

Mr FH has no medical credentials whatsoever, and, indeed, seems to be frankly befuddled by basic scientific concepts such as whether the earth orbits the sun or vice versa.

Nevertheless, this unqualified member of the public has been granted access to medical information, equipment and pathology labs, and testing and treatments are being ordered on his advice.

Next time you’re at the doctor’s surgery, or in the hospital waiting room, you just might want to take a peek at the ID of the people who are treating you as you bare your soul and open up about your most intimate private details. I know I will.

 

 **Comments section at** **23:49**  

 **RogerEJ**  
Wow, this is really scary. I’ll think twice next time the doctor tells me to drop my pants and cough. Especially when I’ve just gone in for an eye exam!

 

 **Matt Jones  
** NHS Boy, I know the person you mean! And the hospital. I won’t say, though. Confidentiality is very important, as you say. I thought he was a total t**t. He told my friend with ME that he was just staying up late and doing drugs. Guy’s been ill for two years! Not cool.

 

 **Kray-z  
** Sounds no different to normal doctors to me, they all act like ME is nothing and you just have to go out and get therapy and exercise and so on. Makes me so mad.

 

 **Arthur_Ian  
** I know who this guy is. You should head over to 22B1 Baker Street and ask for a Mr Fairholme, who is frequently seen in the company of a Dr J Wilson.

 

 **Comments section at** **23:51**

 **RogerEJ  
** Wow, this is really scary. I’ll think twice next time the doctor tells me to drop my pants and cough. Especially when I’ve just gone in for an eye exam!

 

 **Matt Jones  
** NHS Boy, I know the person you mean! And the hospital. I won’t say, though. Confidentiality is very important, as you say. I thought he was a total t**t. He told my friend with ME that he was just staying up late and doing drugs. Guy’s been ill for two years! Not cool.

 

 **Kray-z  
** Sounds no different to normal doctors to me, they all act like ME is nothing and you just have to go out and get therapy and exercise and so on. Makes me so mad.

 

 **Arthur_Ian**    
_This comment has been deleted by the user._

 

 **Support for ME and CFS Facebook Page**  
   
27th May  
Hi guys, I probably shouldn’t post this here, but I’ve found a new diagnostician who’s handing out diagnoses to misdiagnosed ME/CFS patients for free! PM me for details before this message gets removed by the mods!

 

 **www.twitter.com/jonesy_Matt_Jones**  
  
Protest rally outside 22 Baker Street, 10am. Bring friends. @Solidarity_for_CFS @LukeSkyStalker69.

  
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Dr. Estrada raises the floral china cup to his lips and takes a cautious sip. “Another fabulous cup of tea, Gladys.” He turns in his seat. “By the way, Oliver, I meant to say that you were right about the boy. It was FOP. Just in time, too, as his surgery was provisionally scheduled for right about now. His parents were so grateful they’re making a very large donation to the clinic. They’re also working with an FOP campaign group to publicize the case. That was the original reason I called. Of course, then you told me about all of this…” 

House taps his cane against the carpet. “Yeah, about that: you wouldn’t happen to have any idea who tipped them off about me, would you?”

“Wait, you don’t think- I certainly hope you’re not implying that I had anything to do with this.”

“I did at first, but no. I’ve been doing some detective work online, and it seems that whoever leaked our address was using the same offshore IP address as the person who wrote the blog. Meaning it’s probably the author who revealed our identities to divert the heat from himself. This whole thing isn’t your style. From what I can tell it’s been running for a year, and not once has the CFS clinic been mentioned. I can’t believe you’d be able to resist the temptation. It has to be somebody on your staff, though. It’s the only way they could have overheard our conversation, looked up his name, seen mine as his next of kin, and got hold of our temporary address. More specifically it has to be one particular person on your staff, since he’s the only other person, aside from you, who could possibly know this level of detail. It fits.”

Dr. Estrada bites into the corner of a biscuit, and lays the rest on his saucer. “Actually, Oliver, I rather fancy your deductive reasoning has let you down in this instance. Neither Bradley Street, nor anybody on my staff, would have had access to Dr. Wilson’s records since he’s registered at the hospital next door and the two systems are entirely separate. And before you ask, I’ve had no reason to mention that the two of you are staying here.”

Wilson is sitting on the wide, cushioned arm of House’s chair. He leans forward and says: “Then somebody from the other hospital must have been in the waiting room. Someone from Norris’ team, perhaps? They might have found out about the kid’s case from a colleague.”

House shakes his head twice. “Our mystery guy is just starting out. You can’t do your foundation years at a cancer hospital over here. Not if you’re a doctor, anyway. First you have to…” He looks up, slowly, and his eyes seem to be focused on something that isn’t there.

Wilson waves his hand in front of House’s face. “Er, hello? Oliver?”

“Oh, god, _of course!”_ He jumps to his feet, and leans against his cane. “Who can go anywhere in a hospital without being noticed?”

The corners of Wilson’s mouth droop. “Seriously? In a hospital? Anybody. It’s a large public building.”

“Think about it. We’ve been looking for a doctor, because that’s who the guy says he is. But if he’s such a popular writer, why isn’t he making money by getting a book deal? He can’t be earning that much money, he lives in an expensive city, and dozens of publishers want to sign him. The only explanation is that he doesn’t want the publishers to check his identity.”

“So, you’re saying … what? This guy could be anybody? A patient? Somebody on the cleaning staff?

“No, not patients, not cleaners. It would have to be somebody who would have the means to find out who we are.” He looks from Wilson, to Estrada to Mrs. Henson. “Who becomes part of the furniture, but still has access to our names and addresses?”

Dr. Estrada frowns, and five creases appear on his brow. “A few people. Nurses, pharmacists, hospital transport…”

“Uh-huh.” House tilts his head.

Wilson’s head jolts up. “The porter with Mr. Phillips. He was wearing an ambulance service uniform, and he was there when you were talking to all those patients. And when you said that thing about the Earth going around the Sun.”

House taps his cane against the ground. “Who knows how long he was standing outside the door before Street showed up and forced him to come into the room.”

“That’s right,” Estrada purses his lips.“The London Ambulance Service provides our acute-case patient transport. They have access to all the systems in the area. Not full access, you understand, but enough to book patients in and out, and…”

“And they have access to names, addresses and next of kin.” House finished.

“Exactly. It was him, it has to have been. Gosh, I barely even noticed he was there.”

“I suppose nobody ever does. He’s just a large gurney with big arms and a slightly lower IQ. Or so we thought.”

“So what now?” Wilson asks.

House slaps his hand against the back of the chair. “Dr. Estrada, could you place a call for _urgent_ hospital transportation?” He affects a feminine voice. “I suspect I’m very ill, and a nice strong porter with big arms might be just what the doctor ordered.”

“I know just the person.” Dr. Estrada snatches the tiny flip phone from his pocket, and jabs at the buttons. “Mrs. Henson, are there any rooms free downstairs?”

She rises and shuffles forward in her sensible beige shoes. “Ooh, I could get the keys for five. That’s if the badger hasn’t come back.”

“Yes, yes,” Estrada waves his hand at her as if that’s a perfectly normal statement for her to have made, and raises the phone to his ear. “Hello, is that Faye? Yes, hello Faye, it’s Dr. Estrada from the CFS clinic. I was wondering if you might be able to help me. We’re having a devil of a time with a patient of mine, and I seem to remember that last time this happened the only person who could get him to come to the hospital was the porter who was on duty the other day. It was the large chap, the one who brought Mr. Phillips in. Yes, I see…”

House lays his fingers against Wilson’s elbow, and draws him toward the corner of the room. He speaks in a low voice, close to Wilson’s left ear. “Look, if this doesn’t work, just make the choice. The treatment or the road trip, I don’t care which. I’m just sorry you didn’t get to have both.”

Wilson looks down at the plush carpet, and then slowly raises his eyes to meet House’s. A hint of a smile is tugging up the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’ve been thinking, I’ve always wanted to see Scotland. There are lots of places to go climbing there this time of year…”

House squeezes Wilson’s arm, once, and lets his hand linger.

Wilson rests his hand over House’s fingers for a moment, and then moves to follow Estrada, who has just hung up the phone. “Come on, we’re not finished yet. We might still get to do both. God knows, we made it this far.”

-<> <> <> <> <> <> -

It turns out The Badger is actually a South London DJ with a penchant for snorting coke. His gritty, first floor room is bare save for a single, metal bed and a makeshift table consisting of a door with blistered white paint slung across two wooden stools. The hollow tubing from a cheap ballpoint pen is crossed over a rusted razorblade next to the hole left by the door’s handle. Mrs. Henson tuts, once, and knocks them into a black sack with a feather duster, before House deposits the laptop at the other end.

Estrada swings the door closed behind them. “We’re in luck. The porter’s name is Jonas Davies, and it just so happens he’s in the second half of his shift right now. They’ve pulled him off a routine call, so he should be here pretty soon.”

Wilson casts his eyes around the room. “What address did you give again?”

“22A5.”

Wilson shakes his head. “He’ll work it out.”

The roars and chants from the crowds outside are harder to ignore as they filter through the grimy, head-height window above the bed. House finds himself raising his voice to drown them out. “Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he’ll have to explain to his control room why he doesn’t want to come inside.” A siren mingles with the din, and the room is bathed in blue light. “I guess we’ll find out in a minute.”

There is a tentative rap moments later. “Ambulance service.”

House and Wilson press themselves against the stark wall, and gesture toward Dr. Estrada and Mrs. Henson.

“Oh, er, come in,” Dr. Estrada tries.

The porter prods the door open, and takes two faltering steps across the threshold. “Did somebody call for an ambulance?”

“We did.” House emerges from behind the open door with Wilson, who slams it shut.

Jonas looks from House and Wilson to Estrada and Mrs. Henson, then back again. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”

“I notice you don’t have a wedding ring.” House remarks, as he plods toward Jonas. “There’s no white mark on your ring finger, either, which sort of indicates you never really had one.”

Jonas swipes his hand behind his back, and takes a half-step backwards.

“It’s funny, really, since in your column you mention having a wife. Mind you, in your column you also said you were a junior doctor, so I’m guessing truth isn’t really your strong suit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jonas Davies, if that _is_ your real name. Oh wait, it is; that’s kinda the point. Sorry, got caught up in the moment there.”

“What he’s _trying_ to say,” Wilson cuts in, “is that we know you’re the one who’s been writing the NHS Boy blog _._ ”

Jonas squares his shoulders. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t read blogs. I only even know who that guy is because it’s been in the papers.”

House leans heavily on his cane. “And you can prove that, can you? Because, you know, if you were looking to make some extra money I’d be happy to go outside right now and slander you in front of all those cameras by saying you already confessed to being NHS Boy. I’m sure you could make some seriously big money by suing two doctors and a stockbroker for defamation of character. If, of course, you can prove you’re not NHS Boy. 

Jonas looks from House to Wilson and back to House.

The noise from the crowds is picking up. Megaphone guy seems to have organized some sort of chant.

“What do we want?”

“Justice for ME!”

“When do we want it?”

“Now!”

Jonas backs away again as if trying to escape both the crowds outside the room and the people inside. His radio crackles on his belt, and a woman’s voice asks. “Everything okay, mate?”

Jonas unclips it and speaks close to the mouthpiece. “Yeah, fine, just talking to the patient. You may as well stay with the truck.”

House purses his lips. “Interesting how you don’t want your partner to come in here.”

Jonas’ shoulders sag, and his head droops toward the floor. “Okay, you win.” He looks up. “It’s not what you think, though. Really. It just started out as a way to get money for med school.”

House inclines his head. “I’m listening.”

“I already have a First Class Honours degree in English from OxfordUniversity. I’ve sat every graduate and undergraduate entrance exam for six years in a row. My scores are really, really good, but I just keep failing the maths. I just can’t focus on the numbers. They don’t _mean_ anything to me.”

House purses his lips. “It sounds like you have dyscalculia.”

“Of course I have dyscalculia! I _can_ read! And before you ask, I don’t have a history of head trauma and my MRI was negative for lesions. It’s ridiculous. My verbal reasoning skills are off the chart, I show excellence in problem solving and written communication, but no matter how hard I try I can’t get the calculations to make sense. I can barely even tell the time.”

“Oh well.” House shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not like that stuff’s important. When you have to do a dosage calculation for an emergency IV, you can just write the patient a poem. I’m sure it will work just as well.”

“Oh yeah? Jonas plants a hand on one hip. “And what about you then? You’ve been strutting round the hospital acting like you know everything.”

“With all due respect,” Dr. Estrada cut in. “Mr. Fairholme hasn’t been writing a widely-read blog in which he claims to be a doctor.”

“Yeah,” Jonas blows out a breath. “I suppose. So what now?”

House shifts his weight back to his good leg. “I’ll make it simple for you. You’re going to go over to that laptop, log onto your blog and update it with an amazing human-interest story that has restored your faith in the NHS. Earlier today, two benefactors made a generous donation to Dr. Estrada’s CFS Clinic after he saved the life of their young son.”

A pink tinge floods Estrada’s cheeks. “Well, that’s very kind of you, but I really don’t think-”

“No, really, take the credit. At least it gets the attention away from us.” He turns back to Jonas. “You are also going to correct your original story with an apology, saying that the man you mistook for an amateur diagnostician is really Dr. Kingsley Estrada, noted NHS consultant. Better still, contact the paper and get them to issue an official retraction. With any luck it will get you fired before you have to quit.

“Meanwhile, Dr. Estrada will contact the sponsors and ask if he can get some extra publicity for their kid’s case. They’ll say yes, of course, because they’re all about throwing their money around and feeling important. He can then go downstairs and ask the news crews if they’ve got five minutes to talk to him. By that time, some of them will have read your blog and recognized his name, leading to a frenzy of interest in which _everybody_ will be trying to find out if he knows NHS Boy’s secret identity.” He lifts his eyes pointedly in the direction of Estrada. “Estrada will then tell them that he has no idea what they’re talking about. It’s perfect: Estrada gets publicity for his clinic, we’re off the hook and it creates a distraction while we get to our appointment.”He takes a step toward Jonas. “Go on, then.”

Jonas drops to sit cross legged on the dusty floor, and draws the laptop toward him.

“And if you don’t, I’ll go down there and tell everybody that NHS Boy is a sad lonely hospital porter, who can’t get into medical school and is so pathetic he had to publicly invent his career and his wife.”

Mrs. Henson plucks at the end of the feather duster. “Coo, it’s all action and drama with these American guests, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say, Gladys. Quite so. Do you know, I think I will have one of those biscuits after all. And a milky cup of tea. It might settle my nerves.”

-<> <> <> <> <> <> -

Ten minutes later House and Wilson are hurrying along the uneven cobblestones of the narrow London alleyways with their jackets pulled up around their jaws. A black cab is drawing to a halt in front of a pub with a garish, pillar-box red awning, and Wilson sprints ahead to intercept it. He leans into the front window to speak to the driver, jumps into the back and slams the door shut behind him.

House pauses and rubs at his thigh as the cab makes a u-turn and crawls up alongside the curb where he’s standing. He hands his cane to Wilson before scrambling inside. “Do you think we’ll make it?”

Wilson peers out of the window. “If the traffic’s like this, yes. To be honest, I’m just grateful that we got away without ending up on camera.” He turns back to House, and his voice seems a little softer at the edges when he speaks. “I guess I should thank you for that. Even though we wouldn’t have been in that mess without your insatiable need to diagnose _everybody_ , you did get us out of it again.”

House suddenly becomes very interested in the floor of the taxi cab. “So you forgive me, then? We’re back to being … friends with benefits?” He looks up, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “That is unless your earlier use of the term ‘relationship’ was more than a slip of your oh-so-talented tongue?”

“Okay, House, what’s going on here?”

“I think that was my question.”

“Come on, you know what I mean. Since when did you care about normal social conventions like labeling a relationship? And why does it even matter, when you know I’m barely even going to see anybody else, until, well…the inevitable.”

“So, what? You’re saying because you’re probably going to die the normal aspects of your life don’t matter?”

“Of course they matter - to me. I just don’t think they matter to you. Aren’t you the one who’s always saying you have to judge people by their actions, because everybody lies anyway? Sound familiar?”

House purses his lips. “You’re right, I do say that. I say it because it’s true. I guess _this,”_ he waves a hand between them, “is what it is. Just like a patient with FOP is still a patient with FOP. We may have given that kid a diagnosis, but aside from saving him from surgery we haven’t changed anything. It’s not like there’s any effective treatment. They could say he has FOP, or ME, or CFS or anything where the treatment options are basically _do nothing,_ and the outcome is the same. Kid seizes up, his joints stop bending, pretty soon he looks like a walking, talking mannequin.” House gathers air into his cheeks and feels them swell. He lets it escape, slowly, through a tiny gap between his lips. “You’re right, I don’t need to call this anything. It’s not like we have anybody to tell; it’s not like it changes what we are to each other.”

Wilson spreads his hands. “So why do you keep bringing it up?”

“What would you rather we talked about?”

Wilson pauses with his palms still upturned. He blinks, folds his hands in his lap and shifts a little against the seat. “House, I really think we _should_ talk about the cancer.”

“Pass.”

“It’s not just me who’s going through all of this.”

“Do you have some big need to talk about it?”

“Well, not right now, but-”

“Then I refer you to my earlier answer. Which was ‘pass’, by the way. Since you seem to have missed it." 

Wilson slouches against the seat. House can see the line of his jaw stiffen where he is clenching his teeth.

House turns his attention to the window. The sea of people is giving way to wide empty streets lined with characterless glass-fronted buildings, and suddenly they’re on the ring road. He forces himself to inhale. “Look, there’s something I have to tell you. At the airport before we came here- I took three Vicodin before we got on the plane.”

Wilson’s jaw does not relax. “I see.”

“It’s the only time, I swear. I’ve been sticking to four-a-day since. I was going to tell you, but the timing never seemed right.”

“And now it does?”

“I’m sorry.”

Wilson purses his lips, and taps one finger against his knee, slowly.

“There’s more.” House turns his attention back to the dusty mat at his feet. “I took another twenty from the lab when I was helping Estrada. They were just sample tablets they were testing. I made it so the paperwork says they failed the friability test, so nobody’s looking for them. Still, I thought you should know.”

Wilson turns his face to the window. House can see the faint outline of his hair and one eye in the glass whenever they pass under a bridge or the shadows from a particularly high building. He doesn’t turn or speak again, but he grabs House’s hand and holds it tight against the side of his thigh with his finger stroking up and down against one of House’s knuckles until the cab finally pulls up in front of the main entrance.

House pushes open the door, and forces himself to swing his aching leg toward the sidewalk. The flint-grey sky is closing in, like a lid on the world. He longs to break through it; to go back to the wide open spaces of the East Coast, but instead he follows Wilson through the main door and along the labyrinth of narrow hallways and tiny elevators until they spy the wide pine arc of the CyberKnife reception desk.

“We’re running to time for once,” the nurse tells Wilson, as she takes his appointment card and slots a thin green report slip inside. Normally we’d go through the forms first and then tell you to take a seat in the waiting area, but we might as well do the whole lot now if you don’t mind?”

“Works for me.” Wilson fishes his wallet from his pocket, and unhooks his watch before holding them out in front of House’s chest. “Meet you out here after?”

 “Sure,” House finds himself saying, as he thrusts the items into his jacket pocket. What he wants to say is _Why don’t we get the nurse with the IQ of a coat stand to hold your stuff while somebody who actually knows how the machine works goes with you?_

This is all wrong, after all. House has to be in there. He has to operate the machine; he has to be the one to perform the scan, to calibrate the exact frequency and direction of the radiation. The cancer can metastasize; it could be anywhere. Only House has the patience and skill to search the surrounding tissue, the lymph nodes, lungs, kidneys and brain.

Wilson glances back over his shoulder as he goes. “Well, here goes nothing.”

The nurse follows him, swinging the heavy door toward House as she does so. There’s a hollow thud as it hits the doorframe, and Wilson is out of sight. All House can see is a heavy layer of brown paint, crisscrossed with inexpert brush strokes. He raises his hand to touch it, but stops himself before his hand reaches waist height.

 _Here goes everything,_ House thinks. He manages five shaking paces in the direction of the waiting room before all sensation leaves his legs. He slumps against the wall, and slides toward the cold beige floor. The corridor is empty. He grabs the Vicodin bottle from his pocket and hurls one pill to the back of his throat, before drawing his knees up and trying to look as if he means to be sitting in a draughty hallway in the hospital basement.

He snatches his cell from his pocket, and begins to scroll aimlessly along the screen. There are a few times in the first five minutes when he thinks that he should get up, get some coffee, find a newspaper, maybe cross the street to the other hospital and find out if there’s any news from Estrada. But House finds it hard to conceive of these people and places existing beyond the four walls of his current world.

The crowds of people who could, for all he knows, still be standing on the corner of Baker Street and George Street might as well be images on a TV screen. They are no more real than a collection of pixels. Right now there is no other hospital, no Estrada, no Jonas Davies and no serviced apartment.

There is nothing, and there will continue to be nothing until the door opens and Wilson comes back to him.

 

The end … for now.


End file.
